


Must Be One of Arthur's Boys

by RonsGirlFriday



Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, Career Change, Community: HPFT, Competent Arthur Weasley, Drama, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Humor, Marriage, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), No Weasley Bashing, Origin Story, POV Arthur Weasley, Parenthood, Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonsGirlFriday/pseuds/RonsGirlFriday
Summary: Slices of Weasley family life through the years, featuring Arthur and his kids(and particularly the one who is the spitting image of him, in more ways than one)For Noelle Zingarella's Origin Story Challenge at HPFT
Relationships: Arthur Weasley & Bill & Charlie & Fred & George & Ginny & Percy & Ron Weasley, Arthur Weasley & Percy Weasley, Arthur Weasley & Weasley Family, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley
Series: Perfectly Imperfect Percy [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543966
Comments: 78
Kudos: 93





	1. 1978

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **1978**
> 
> _Arthur had always wanted to run the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. But not like this._   
> 
> 
> * * *

“Five, Arthur? _Five?_ You’re a madman.”

Arthur Weasley felt his cheeks warm under his colleague’s good-natured jibe, even as he grinned in a self-satisfied way. Balancing his chair on its rear legs, he laced his fingers behind his head and chuckled, “Well, it was supposed to be four. The fifth was a bonus.”

Benwick Bode, a Hit Wizard with whom Arthur had always been on friendly terms, shook his head as he regarded the photograph of the two most recent additions to the Weasley family, Fred and George. “I don’t know how you do it. I’ve got two and I’m fit to lose my mind.”

Affecting modesty, Arthur shrugged. “Just good at it, I s’pose.”

“You’re good at _something_ , all right,” offered Bode’s partner, Jack Greene, with the lift of an eyebrow, eliciting a deeper flush and heartier laugh from Arthur.

“Away with you both!” Arthur reached for his photograph back.

“So this is it?” clarified Bode, returning the photo. “You’re finished, right? No more?”

“Mmm, think that’s what Molly said, too,” interjected Nadia Shah from her own desk, prompting Arthur to grab the miniature Quaffle off his desk and pelt his office mate with it.

“All right, all right.” He waved his hands as a missive with a purple seal flew into the Improper Use of Magic Office and delivered itself neatly onto his desk. “Enough abusing Arthur for one day, I think this is the budget, and Adom’s going to want to talk about it.” Bode and Greene each gave him a parting slap on the back before taking their leave.

“Nearly a month late,” he sighed, unfolding the parchment, “can nothing here be done on time?”

The entries Arthur sought were near the top of the lengthy parchment containing the Ministry of Magic budget finalized for the 1978-1979 fiscal year. He was unsurprised to see that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s budget was larger than the year before, which had in turn been larger than the year before that, and so on; and he was hardly surprised to see that, of that additional funding, fairly little of it had been allocated to the Improper Use of Magic Office. These days, with the increasing threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, most resources went towards the Auror Offices and Hit Squad.

He should have known better than to look at the next entry with any modicum of hope, but he sighed a bit as he noticed the pittance that had been earmarked for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office; he would have to double-check, but in fact it appeared that office was to receive even less funding this year than the last. It was a shame. There was a war on, certainly, Arthur knew that, but this wasn’t a recent problem. That office had been underfunded, understaffed, and undervalued since well before the 1970’s — and for what good reason? Wizards and Muggles coexisted side-by-side, numbers of Muggleborns and magical-Muggle marriages were increasing, and even the current war affected Muggles, too, though they didn’t know it. As far as Arthur was concerned, the Ministry’s refusal to invest in understanding Muggle life and society and developing relationships with them was tantamount to living in the Dark Ages.

Really, they needed an entire department for muggle affairs — not just the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and the Muggle Liaison Office, which was purely for damage control under Accidents and Catastrophes. But even Arthur knew that was too much to hope for any time soon. He would have settled for a proper budget and expanded mission for Muggle Artifacts, which at present was woefully inconsequential — a joke, really — to the point that it hardly justified the ink expended to write its name and paltry budget on this parchment.

“Art, why do you look like someone’s put Doxycide in your tea?” asked Nadia.

“Because your government has once again demonstrated that it’s perfectly happy falling behind the rest of the world in terms of understanding Muggle life and technology.”

A collective groan swept through the office.

“Does nobody in here pay attention to what’s going on internationally?” asked Arthur. He turned to Nadia, who, due to the proximity of her desk to his, generally found herself the captive sounding board for Arthur’s ideas, jokes, and grievances. “Have you heard these rumors that Russia wants to plant a wizard in their Muggle space program?”

“Oh, that is total shit.”

“What is?”

“Do you expect us to believe that anybody — witch, wizard, or otherwise — is flying about in outer space? Load of bollocks made up by crackpot Muggles, and if magical Russia is falling for it, that’s their problem —”

“Why is it a load of bollocks? Because Muggles are doing something we can’t?” Arthur had risen from his chair and was now starting to pace behind his desk as the familiar diatribe began to pour forth. So prone was he to doing this, that his colleagues often joked that he’d someday wear a hole in the floor and drop straight through to the Obliviator Headquarters below. “See, this is what I’m saying! We’re so far behind in understanding Muggle technology, not to mention their daily lives, how is that to our advantage?”

“Arthur —”

“You know, we’re no longer the insular community we once were. Japan understands this; that’s why they’re leaps and bounds ahead of everyone. Israel understands this. Egypt, Switzerland —”

“Arthur —”

“The only ones further behind us in this regard are the Americans.” He paused, recollecting. “Well, and certain African nations, but that’s an entirely different situation, owing to the manifold Muggle conflicts taking place and certain efforts at decolonization. You don’t really want to embrace the culture of a group whose rule you’re currently trying to throw off, do you? But that’s not the point.” He waved that dissertation away with his hand. “The point is —”

“Oi!”

Whipping around to find the source of that exclamation, he saw Walter MacMillan grabbing himself by the collar theatrically, and with his other hand holding his wand to his own throat just under the jawline.

“I can’t take it anymore, Art, keep talking about the cultural and historic significance of Muggle technology, and I swear I’ll do it.”

“He is crazy enough to do it, Arthur,” called Sheila Flint from her own desk. “And if he does, we’ll leave the parchmentwork to you.”

* * *

  


Work was really the only place where Arthur could huff and puff to his heart’s content about the sad state of magical-Muggle relations in Britain. His mates from school tolerated it with some level of amusement, though he wasn’t able to see them very much these days; his mother liked to inquire whether his obsession might be the reason he only got five NEWTs (already more than either of his brothers or any of his Gryffindor classmates, Arthur would like to add, thank you very much); and Bilius, who had even less of a filter than Arthur or their elder brother Godfrey, would get right to the point by throwing his head back dramatically and sighing, “Arthur, shut the fuck _up!_ ”

Talking to Molly about it was right out of the question, Arthur knew that. It wasn’t that she was unsupportive; rather, she had quite a lot going on herself.

“Eight-thirty, Arthur!” she exclaimed in frustration when he arrived at home that night; it had become something of a tradition for her to greet him by announcing whatever time it was when he stepped out of the fireplace.

He could hardly be upset with her, though — if it were a competition as to which of them was more exhausted at the end of the day, Molly would win handily. Pieces of hair were falling from a greasy knot atop her head, her eyes were verging on bloodshot, and she was trying unsuccessfully to clear a stain from the shoulder of her blouse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he really was. “We got the budget in today, I had to go over it with Adom.” He kissed her on the forehead before turning his attention to the cradle that had been placed next to the sofa. “Here are two faces I’ve been wanting see all day!” He scooped up one of the twins. “Wasson, Fred?”

“That’s George,” said Molly with more than a hint of exasperation.

“That’s what I meant,” he amended smartly. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he could mark an _F_ and a _G_ behind each of their ears without Molly noticing.

“Dad!” Bill came barrelling out of the boys’ room and latched himself onto Arthur’s leg. Charlie, as always, was close on Bill’s heels.

“Thought this was bedtime?” asked Arthur, amused.

Molly sighed. “Well, short of a Permanent Sticking Charm, I’ve not been able to keep them in their beds. Soon as I get one down, another pops up…”

“Has my mum been around?” Arthur’s mother often came to help Molly during the day.

“Yes, she went home at half six.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, considering the boys were in the room. “And thank God. She’s driving me absolutely batty.”

“Yes, she will do that.” Arthur nodded apologetically, though there was really nothing to be done for it. They needed the help. He directed his next words to Bill and Charlie. “What have I told you about listening to Mum?” Bill responded with an abashed look that did not seem entirely sincere.

“They don’t like not seeing you before they go to sleep.” Molly’s voice was low, and Arthur tried to ignore the disappointment he thought he heard in it.

“If I tuck you two in, will you stay in bed?”

Bill and Charlie nodded eagerly as Arthur avoided Molly’s eyes. He laid George gently back in the cradle next to Fred and followed the elder boys towards the bedroom they shared with Percy.

“Arthur.”

He stopped, his back still to Molly, as the boys disappeared into their bedroom. Hands on his hips, he stared resolutely at the floor and scuffed his toe against the worn carpet. He knew by her tone of voice what she was going to say. Again.

“Arthur, things aren’t getting any easier around here.”

“I know. We’ll talk to Mother, all right? See if she can come around more. Between her and your mum I’m sure —”

“I didn’t marry your mother.”

“Molly, this is the worst possible time…”

“I don’t care. The children need you more than the Ministry does. I know you’re good, but there are plenty of others who can pull their weight there as well. They can give you up a few hours earlier each day. At least.”

He turned towards her, concentrating on keeping his tone even. “I’m an Assistant Head, how’s that going to look?”

“Like you’ve proved yourself and they could stand to give a little back to you.”

“That’s not how it works. And don’t look at me like that.”

“No, _you_ don’t look at me like that! You know, you participated in this process just as much as I did.” She gestured to the twins, and Arthur tipped his head to the side to signify his concession on that point.

“Look, we’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“When? When Fred and George are studying for their NEWTs?” There was a crinkle between Molly’s eyebrows as her eyes bored into his.

Arthur didn’t know which was worse, shouting at each other or what they were doing now: volleying their hushed frustration back and forth, their voices low and tense, Molly staring at him with sad, disappointed eyes, and Arthur trying to wrestle his own features into something stoic but ultimately settling for something like mulish. Without another word, he turned and continued on to the boys’ room.

Bill and Charlie were in their beds eagerly awaiting him, and Percy was clinging to the rim of his cot babbling something to Bill — Arthur could tell because every other word out of Percy’s mouth, as it generally was these days, was “Bill.” Percy threw Arthur a quick “Daddy!” before resuming his well-meaning harassment of his elder brother.

“Charlie set the hedge on fire today!” reported Bill with a note of pride, holding out a book for Arthur to read to them.

“Proper job,” replied Arthur distractedly as he watched Percy, whom he had just realized was actually looking towards Charlie while calling him “Bill.” Percy was squinting in an odd manner and kept rubbing his eyes.

“Molly?” he called, picking up Percy. “Has Percy been squinting like this all day? Or other days?”

“Oh, I… I haven’t noticed,” came her reply from the other room.

“How can you not have noticed?” he asked, annoyed.

“I beg your pardon?” The temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. Molly appeared in the doorway holding one of the twins demonstratively. “How can I not have noticed? Did you really just ask me that?”

He sighed, feeling somewhat guilty for his tone, though he was still agitated that Molly hadn’t noticed one of their children not being able to see. “I’m sorry. I just… I think maybe Percy’s going to need glasses.” 

Molly looked bewildered. “Already? He’s not yet two!”

“I got mine when I was barely three.”

Percy was presently trying to remove Arthur’s own glasses from his face.

“Well, I… I suppose if your mum or my mum will stay here with the twins, I can take the other boys with Percy and me…” She looked as if she wanted to break down in tears at this thought. The twins were still brand new and Molly hadn’t been away from them.

“I’ll take him,” said Arthur quietly. “I’ll take him first thing one morning, be at work by ten. I’m sure that’ll be fine.” He was not entirely sure, but what else could he do?

* * *

  


A week later, after Percy had received his glasses and Arthur had seriously contemplated using a Temporary Sticking Charm to stop him ripping them off, Arthur found himself in his superior’s office about to have the conversation he’d been reluctantly turning over in his mind the entire week.

“Adom… I think I need to take a step back. Around here.”

“What are you on about?” Adom Tutuola, Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, looked distractedly between Arthur and an array of documents spread about his desk. Two quills were at work making notations here and there.

Hands braced atop the back of a chair, his tall, lean figure slightly hunched, Arthur drew a breath and ploughed on with it. “I need… I need to be at home more. I need to cut back here. Just for a while. And I’ll give up being Assistant Head if I have to,” he added hurriedly.

Arthur had never seen two eyes so wide as Adom’s at that moment. “Are you off your nut? We’re critically understaffed, you know that. You want to cut back _and_ you want me to find a new Assistant?”

“It’s only fair, I can’t expect to keep the spot with what I’m asking you. Up to you, though, I’m happy to keep doing it if —”

“What the hell brought this on?” Both quills working at Adom’s desk had come to an abrupt halt.

“You know Molly just had the twins. It’s a lot for her. For us.”

“You took an entire week off when they were born, that in itself is almost unheard of. Barty didn’t even want me to approve it. That wasn’t sufficient?”

“Well, oddly enough, the children stuck around after the week was over.”

Adom ignored Arthur’s sass and ran his hand over his close-cropped beard. “Art. You’re on track to have my job within five years. You could be running this whole bleeding Department by the time you’re forty-five if you want to. Assuming you ease up on the Muggle fixation. People notice that, you know.”

Arthur ignored that last bit. “That’s not true, the Head of Department is almost always a former Auror, but even if it is true, I’ll just have to be happy with doing it when I’m fifty instead.”

Still seated at his desk, Adom stared up at Arthur, not unkindly, but clearly appalled. His voice was soft and even. “That’s not how this works, you know it’s not. What you’re asking is a dangerous move.”

“It doesn’t have to be, not if you and everyone else are willing to be reasonable about it. And I doubt this is only about your concern for my career, so I want to assure you, I don’t plan to stop pulling my weight around here — I just don’t want to pull quite as much of everyone else’s.”

“What do you suggest I do with this?”

“Move people around, Adom, this is literally what you’re in charge of. I’ll do whatever you need — hell, I’ll do Dolores’s job if you want me to. Isn’t it about time she moved on somewhere?”

“You’ll send letters to kids who blow things up over the holidays? That’s what you want to do with your life? And are you really suggesting I promote Dolores Umbridge?”

“Good lord, no. What she needs is to be sent somewhere like Transportation, but that’s a different conversation entirely. Give Nadia the Assistant Head position, she could do it in her sleep.”

Adom looked dubious. “Nadia’s got kids.”

“So do I!”

Arthur could not miss the look on Adom’s face that indicated he did not consider those to be the same at all.

Adom shook his head and looked down at his desk. “This is a mistake, Arthur. I’m begging you to reconsider this request.”

Now Arthur could feel heat rising in his cheeks. “It’s not a mistake. Now look. Don’t make me formally resign from the Assistant spot and be floating about in the bureaucratic ether, Adom, please don’t do that to me. Either let me share my supervisory tasks with someone, or move me somewhere with a lighter load. Anywhere. Two, three years, the kids will be older, more manageable, everyone will be sleeping through the bloody night, and everything will be normal again.”

His superior looked about the space immediately in front of him as if he’d been hit in the head with a Bludger and was trying to remember who or where he was. Arthur felt it was a bit theatrical.

“Is your wife putting you up to this? You know, you need to just tell her— ”

Arthur’s face was on fire now. “Don’t. That’s between me and her.”

“Or you, her, and me, now, apparently.”

There was that angry tightness in his chest, the one that made his breath come shorter and thinner. Arthur gave a frustrated jerk of his head and blew out one steadying sigh through his nose.

“I’m not changing my mind on this. I can’t keep going the way I have been. You have my request.” He strode out the door before Adom could argue further, but not before pausing at the threshold and adding, “I have never let you down, not once.”

* * *

  


Life, it seemed, had perverse sense of humor and a way of tripping you when you were already on your last leg. Arthur had dreamt of hearing these words, but not quite under these conditions. As a matter of fact, not at all under these conditions.

“I talked to Barty. Effective two weeks from today, you’ll assist with Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.” Adom couldn’t even look at him as he said it.

It was a week and a half after their prior conversation, and Arthur now sat in the faded velvet armchair in front of Adom’s desk, leaning comfortably on one elbow, one lanky leg crossed over the other, willing himself not to close his eyes — he’d slept probably ten hours over the past three days — but at the Head’s words, Arthur sat bolt upright. He resisted the urge to let his jaw drop.

“That’s so far off the pitch it’s not even in play! What the — ”

Adom raised an eyebrow, and the way he affected ignorance and surprise made Arthur want to whip out his wand immediately. But hexing people when you were pissed off was frowned upon when you were almost thirty.

“Haven’t you been saying for years that you wanted to head that office, build it up into something?”

Arthur _had_ been saying it for years, but nobody had wanted to listen, ever. It was not a coincidence that this was happening now.

“ _If_ it were allotted a proper staff and an actual budget, yes! If it were a functional office, not the joke it is right now. _And_ , I might add, five years ago, when I had all the time in the world, before I — ”

“Before you’d set about building your own Quidditch team?”

Arthur stood, his face burning and his blood boiling. Weeks and months of being completely on edge came together like they’d been waiting for this moment. He hadn’t slept, Molly was freezing him out again, Charlie had already broken Percy’s glasses, Bill had recently made it his life’s ambition to climb up to the roof of the house, money was tighter than he would have liked, he was undeniably being punished for asking to work shorter hours, and now Adom had the nerve to sit here and judge him.

“That’s out of order! My personal life is none of your — ”

“You _made it_ my concern. Back off, Art.” Though he remained calm, Adom stared Arthur down as the latter realized his hands were now planted on the edge of Adom’s desk. “This is what’s been decided — by the Department, by the way; you know how Barty is. I don’t know how you thought this would turn out. There was nothing I could do — ”

“What utter tosh! You should have fought harder for me. This…” Arthur could feel his teeth starting to actually chatter together in agitation as his anger rose and every part of him seemed to tremble. “This is retaliation! You’ve somehow managed to give me an assignment that’s all at once a demotion, a dead-end, _and_ more work!”

“It’s not more work, Perkins leaves every day at three-thirty! And so will you.”

“That’s only if I do the bare minimum, like that office does now! When I talked about that office, I wanted to make it into something functional finally! How am I going to do that now? Without funding, _and_ trying to raise my kids? I can’t, you know I can’t. If I want to actually have a life, I’ll end up doing exactly what Perkins does in there now, absolutely nothing. You put me between a rock and a hard place.”

Arthur’s rant had become an all but unstoppable train. “And you know what this is going to do to me, Adom, you bloody well know it! What happens when the kids are older and I have more time? What’s going to be open to me after I spend years wasting away in there? Can you promise that my old spot will be available to me? Can you?” He stared hard at Adom, though he already knew the answer.

Avoiding Arthur’s eyes, Adom scratched a spot just under his jaw. “Positions are filled as needed, you know that. There are plenty of people who want to do what you do right now. So I can’t guarantee — ”

“No, of course, you can’t, do you know why? Because everybody knows what happens to people who are sent there right now. You know it, I know it, Barty knows it, and you knew it when you did this. Everyone who goes there either retires or dies out of that office, except, oh, hang on, they don’t retire because they can’t afford to because they don’t ever get a raise! So they just die there! So thanks, Adom, sincerely, from me and my entire Quidditch team. Thanks for doing me this favor! Fuck.” He punctuated this tirade by kicking at the waste bin in the corner.

Adom reclined in his chair, looking supremely and maddeningly unimpressed. “Are you finished?”

Trying to get his heart rate under control, Arthur blew out a shaky breath. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Nobody did anything _to_ you. You did what you had to do. So did we.”

* * *

  


Arthur went home at six-thirty, happy to find that his mother had left just shortly before he’d arrived; he could not deal with her that day. Molly, cleaning up the kitchen after the children’s dinner, looked at the clock, and Arthur raised his hands in appeasement.

“I know. I know. But I have… news.” He almost said “good news,” but could not bring himself to do so.

Molly awaited the rest silently.

“I’ve stepped down as Assistant Head. For now.”

Her face softened and she gave him a tired smile. “Really?”

“Yeah. Shorter hours. Less stress.” Tucking away his disappointment deep inside, he forced a smarmy look and added with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “More Arthur for you.”

“Stop it.” But she blushed. “And what will you do now?”

He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the tile and made himself say the words, hoping she would interpret the softness of his voice as not wanting to wake the twins, who were asleep in the next room. “Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.”

“Oh!” Molly’s face was truly radiant — she was happy for him. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? So it worked out for everyone!”

Arthur hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yep. It did.” He returned her smile with a small one of his own.

It was the first time Arthur Weasley ever lied to his wife.

“Mum! Daaaaad!” shouted Bill from his room at that moment. “Charlie’s saying he’s not touching me, _except he is!!_ ”

At that disruption, Fred or George started crying, his counterpart followed suit moments after, and Molly once again looked like she wanted to burst into tears herself.

“Bill,” stated Percy happily from his seat at the kitchen table, pointing in the direction of his elder brother’s voice, oblivious to the fact that his parents were on the verge of losing their minds.

Sighing, Arthur placed a kiss on Molly’s forehead. “If you’ll see to the twins, I’ll tire out these three.” Ignoring her dubious look, he pulled himself together, clapped his hands, and called, “All right, I know three little boys who need to go outside and fly right now! Come on, Dad says so!”

Bill and Charlie rocketed out of their room, nearly knocking one another over in their race to the garden behind the house. Arthur scooped up Percy and followed.

“No, Charlie, that’s my broom!”

“Dad!” complained Charlie, struggling against the hand Bill had planted in his face.

“Nobody’s going to have brooms if that continues,” said Arthur mildly, causing both boys to smarten up and mount their respective broomsticks.

“Dad, when can we play with a Quaffle?” asked Bill.

“When I can trust you won’t throw it at each other’s faces. All right, you know the rules, not beyond the hedges. Three, two, one, GO!”

Bill kicked off from the ground first, and off they went, rising no further than two meters from the ground, Charlie pacing Bill rather impressively for being only five.

“And you, my ‘ansum,” said Arthur, addressing Percy. His third boy had never had much luck even on the smallest toy brooms — terrible balance — though Arthur did wonder now whether that might have had something to do with the eyesight. Even so, the older boys were at an age where they were far too rough for Percy, who seemed to have been born with a healthy sense of caution ingrained in him. “Let’s see if you can beat your own record, shall we?”

With that, Arthur tossed Percy up into the air, catching him as he giggled madly. Magical kids tended to hover for a moment before coming back down, and Percy had once stayed in the air for what felt like an entire minute, though in retrospect Arthur considered that he was just being paranoid.

As Percy flailed and cackled with joy, keeping Arthur on his toes with the varying durations of his levitation, Arthur kept up a running commentary on his elder pair’s antics.

“For the first time in fifty years it’s brother against brother, two boys from right here in Devon competing in this West Country showdown, and it looks like the entire county has turned out to see the outcome of this rivalry! The Chudley Cannons have been almost deliberately rubbish for the better part of a century, but that all changed when Chaser Bill Weasley came along and led them to five — yes, five — League championships! But Charlie Weasley’s rumored to be the best talent to ever grace the Falmouth Falcons, and he’s here to give Bill a run for his gold! Stakes are high, loser has to do the other one’s chores for an entire week, and the tension here is thick. Let’s see what Ottery St. Catchpole’s local Quidditch commentator has to say about this — who’s going to win, Percy?”

“Bill!” managed Percy as Arthur tickled him.

“How did I know you would say that?”

Arthur made a decision, sometime during that sleepless night, a concept that had been only half-formed earlier when he’d allowed Molly to believe that he’d welcomed his new assignment at work.

What was done was done. He’d made a choice, and so had his superiors. Misuse of Muggle Artifacts was it for the foreseeable future. He’d done it for them — his children, his wife — but it would be a worthless gesture if in the end they believed that he was disappointed, or worse, if the idea ever lodged itself in their minds that it was somehow their fault. From that day on, Arthur would only ever appear happy to sit in that sorry excuse for a storage cupboard and do a thankless job, and nobody would know any different — not even Molly.

Perhaps his fears would prove unfounded; perhaps in a few years, when the boys were older and the chaos at home had subsided, he could find a way to advance again. Maybe attitudes about that office would finally change and the work would be valued, the position respected. Unlikely, but possible, he supposed. But if not… well. He was resolved.

These children — these wild, willful, wonderful boys — would never bear the burden of knowing that their father had once dreamt of a different sort of life entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The story title is a line taken from my own fic_ Irrational, _from a scene where Audrey's dad hears Percy's last name and responds, "Oh, must be one of Arthur's boys. Good man, I always liked him."_  
>  _Hit Wizard Jack Greene is Audrey's father (i.e. Percy's future father-in-law). ;)_
> 
> Notes about Arthur:
> 
> _In canon, he's always hilariously mispronouncing and misunderstanding basic Muggle things. I've obviously taken a different approach with him here. I actually heard a decent fan theory about why Arthur is always messing up words and why he might be doing that on purpose. I won't get into it here, but feel free to chat to me in the comments! I just wanted to take him a little more seriously and give him some more credit._
> 
> _We see some glimpses in canon that suggest Arthur, despite usually being an eccentric teddy bear, can also be a hothead: he brawled with Lucius in the bookshop in CoS; he gave as good as he got in his argument with Percy; and he didn't think twice about getting confrontational with Harry-as-Runcorn in the Ministry break-in in DH. So I headcanon that he has a temper not unlike Ron or Percy._
> 
> Notes about some other things:
> 
> _Russia: Yes, in the 70's this was actually the USSR. For the purposes of this fic, I'm theorizing that magical Russia continued to call itself Russia._
> 
> _Identical twins: In the HP books, Molly is always mixing up Fred and George. Interestingly, I recall hearing of studies that said 1) mothers of identical twins often mistakenly believe the twins are fraternal because they actually think the twins look different, and 2) fathers are more likely than mothers to find the twins truly identical. I had a conversation about this with an acquaintance who has twins. I'm not a scientist; just what I've heard. Anyhow, I've decided to make Molly a little more sensitive to the differences between her twins, at least for right now when they're too young to actively try to confuse her._


	2. 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **1982**
> 
> _The war may be over, but the battle lines are just being drawn._   
> 
> 
> * * *

“Exactly how long do you think you can freeze Mother out?”

Bilius’s voice was a mix of skepticism and amusement as he and Arthur sipped cider in the back garden of the Burrow, watching Bill and the twins practice their flying — well, Bill was flying; Fred and George were delighting themselves taking turns deliberately falling off their shared broom. Molly would be cross as two broomsticks if she were to see it, but she was presently occupied with Ronnie and Ginny inside the house, and the twins were in no real danger — toy brooms only went so high, and kids bounced, didn’t they?

“I’m not trying to freeze her out,” said Arthur tersely, annoyed at how moody he knew he sounded.

“Good, ‘cos she’s got a lot more experience doing it than you.”

If that wasn’t God’s honest truth. Among the few traits that Cedrella Weasley (née Black) retained of her birth family, perhaps the most notable was what Arthur and his brothers had termed ‘the Black ice.’ When their mother was upset about something, she was positively arctic.

Arthur’s emotional responses — _when_ they slipped out, which admittedly happened less and less as he got older — had always been of the more incendiary variety. Accordingly, when his mother had dared to offer Arthur and Molly financial help as Bill’s first year of school approached, his reaction had been to take offense at the implication that he couldn’t support his own family properly. Spurred on by all the perceived slights amassed over the past few years concerning how he and Molly were proceeding through life — every time he had interpreted his mother’s calmly raised eyebrow and pointed silence as an expression of judgment — Arthur had interpreted his mother’s offer of support as clear evidence of her _lack_ of support. Years of minor hurts and offenses, compressed and stored away, mixed with all the stresses accompanying a family of nine, and the cauldron had boiled over before he’d even realized it was in danger of doing so.

Unimpressed with his behavior, Cedrella had weathered Arthur’s little tropical storm without melting a drop. And since then, Arthur had been rather too embarrassed by his strop to speak to his mother; so, he’d made the completely reasonable decision to simply not talk to her.

Undoubtedly, Cedrella loved her grandchildren — every single one of them -- doted on them, really, and probably all the more because Bilius and Godfrey had expressed no interest in producing any of their own anytime soon, if ever. She and Arthur’s father Septimus would not have traded any of these kids for the world. And they were especially ecstatic to have a granddaughter and told anyone who would listen that Ginny was the first Weasley girl in over two hundred years.

But Arthur was not an idiot and could not miss the _almost_ imperceptibly waning enthusiasm and waxing concern that had greeted him each time he and Molly had made a new announcement over the years.

Three was fantastic -- expected, even.

Five was understandable — even reasonable — all things considered, particularly being twins; what could one really do about that but grin, shrug, and take it all in stride?

Six was… surprising, he supposed would be the kind word other people would have applied to it, but ultimately excusable considering Molly had desperately wanted a girl.

Seven… well, seven was the point where Arthur could hear the unspoken sentiment behind the awkward smiles: _Now you’re just being silly about this._

And when Arthur and Molly had first told his parents the news about number seven the previous year, even while they were met with congratulations, Arthur had read volumes in his mother’s split second of hesitation, the guarded blink of her eye, the carefully worded remark:

“I had no idea you were trying for another!”

(They had not, in fact, been trying for another, though they would never admit to anybody that Ginny was a happy accident. The official story was that they wanted a girl — even though Arthur had put his foot down after the last time they’d deliberately tried for that. Ronnie was supposed to retain the distinction of being the baby of the family.)

Taking hold of that bit, Arthur had let it stew for the better part of the past two years, during which time he’d been forced to hear similar comments from relatives, friends, and colleagues. In retrospect, it was really no wonder that he’d finally lost it on his mother the other day. He supposed it was good, even, that he hadn’t snapped at work, on some unsuspecting acquaintance or another who simply _had_ to comment to Arthur _how full his hands were…_

“Keep doing that and your teeth’ll crack.”

Arthur, fallen into one of his ruminations, pinching the bridge of his nose and clenching his jaw, looked up to see Bilius increasing the cider in both their glasses.

“They’re only excited for Bill starting school,” offered the latter, in an un-Biliusly reasonable way, and Arthur wondered at what point his baby brother had grown up this much. Somewhere in between Bill and Ginny. “And who else are they going to spend their money on? Me?”

In spite of himself, Arthur sniggered at the idea of Bilius entreating their parents to spend any part of their modest savings subsidizing his would-be gentleman of leisure lifestyle.

Then, recovering himself, he shook his head and replied, “They think Molly and I have bitten off more than we can chew.”

“They said that?” Bilius’s tone was skeptical again.

“No, of course they don’t ever just _say_ it, but they… Well, you know Mother; you can tell.”

“That face she makes that looks like she’s having the inside of her cheek for dinner?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, what does Septimus say?”

“He acts a little _too_ happy about everything, like he’s trying not to let on. But he likes to ask me _‘how we’re getting on.’_ ” Arthur affected an exaggerated impersonation of their father’s affable manner.

“All right, now you’re just being paranoid.”

“I’m not.”

“Look… all right… maybe they worry about you but -- ”

“Well, they shouldn’t. Especially Father — he should know, he had six brothers. Perfectly fine for Nanny and Grandad, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah?” Bilius laughed. “You ever bother to listen to him talk about what it was like?”

Arthur scoffed, though he grinned. “Course not.”

Arthur loved his father dearly, but Septimus Weasley had a way of just _talking_ nonstop until your brain was about to melt from overheating. At some point you had to let the words fly in one ear and out the other if you stood any chance of making it through. And somehow Septimus could keep up a one-sided conversation for a solid half hour and _still_ kick your arse at chess while he was doing it.

“Well, there you have it. You think you know better than Mother and Father, Mother thinks she knows better than you, and thusly will the West Country fall into endless winter. Meanwhile, Septimus will knit himself a scarf out of _Yes, my dears_ and outlast all of us.”

With an indignant laugh, Arthur protested, “I do _not_ think I know better than them!”

“Oh, you do. It’s the most impressive combination of pigheadedness and obedience I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur might have tried to quarrel with the former characterization, but the latter was undeniable. Rare had been the occasions when Arthur could be accused of having willfully disappointed anyone, and perhaps that was why the implication that he’d done so had the power to drive him absolutely mad.

“You know that’s what this is about, right?” Bilius again broke through Arthur’s contemplation.

“What?”

“You were the last hope.” Bilius could hardly contain his mirth.

“What are you on about?”

“You know full well what I’m on about. You were supposed to be the one who did everything right.”

Arthur pulled a face. “Rubbish -- ” he began, but before he could go any further or Bilius could respond, Arthur caught sight of something and called out, “Bill, mate, what have I said? Not beyond the hedges, all right?”

“Sorry, Dad!” Bill changed course.

“Freddie, Georgie,” Arthur added, “you come closer, too, please.” The twins were not as near the hedges as Bill had been, but if the last several years had taught Arthur anything, it was that if Bill did it, six others were sure to follow.

Freddie and Georgie did _not_ come closer, but Arthur merely chuckled to himself and kept an eye on them. At the mere age of four, the twins’ selective hearing already drove Molly mad, though Arthur was convinced within himself that they’d got it from her side to begin with (and very few things in the world amused him as much as telling her that).

That accomplished, Arthur threw his brother a chagrined, apologetic look, returning to the subject at hand, but Bilius simply laughed.

“What, you think it bothers me? Come on. I’ve known it for years and so has Gobby,” said Bilius, using their eldest brother’s nickname. “You’re the only one intentionally ignoring it.”

Arthur _was_ the highest achiever, the one with the most stable job — what might once have been described as the best job, until four years ago — the only one married, and the only one producing kids.

But while it may have bothered his mother, if Arthur were being honest, the idea that he wasn’t living up to his potential -- whatever that was -- wasn’t what irked him. Arthur’s reputation for letting almost any disagreement roll off his back was not unfounded, and he’d never had any grief over doing what he thought was right, even when criticized for it -- but when it came to the idea that he might have let down Molly and the kids somehow… _that_ was the thief of hours upon hours of sleep.

Arthur could have tolerated a life of personal and professional obscurity if it made Molly happy… it was just that the way he’d attained that nirvana was by way of a job that hardly paid the bills.

And everyone knew it, though nobody ever talked about it (not that he wanted them to).

Very much desiring a change of subject, Arthur asked, “Heard from Gobby lately?” He would have liked to write his elder brother more often, but there never seemed to be enough time for anything these days.

“Yeah. _He’s_ not talking to Mother again.”

Godfrey. Now there was the Weasley brother who’d inherited the Black ice.

“Oh, what the hell is it _now?_ ” asked Arthur, ignoring the irony of his own comment.

“Dunno, Mother said something about Kimi again.”

Godfrey lived in Japan with his long-time girlfriend Kimiko, whom he apparently had no intention of ever marrying. And there were several things about that statement that were unacceptable to Cedrella.

Both Weasley brothers exchanged a knowing look and sipped their drinks in unison, before Arthur spied in his periphery a small head of red hair that had just emerged from the house. Its owner plopped himself onto the steps, chin in his hands, and Arthur had to suppress a chuckle at the inexplicably glum look on his six-year-old’s face.

Following his brother’s gaze, Bilius called out encouragingly, “Alright, me ‘ansum?”

Percy gave an impressively long-suffering sigh for someone so young. “Charlie won’t let me play dragons with him.”

“Aw, that’s all right. Why don’t you join the boys flying? Teach Fred and George how to stay on their broom more than ten seconds at a time.”

“I don’t like flying,” replied Percy somberly but politely.

“Aw, how come you don’t — ?” Bilius jumped, causing some of his cider to slosh down his front, as Arthur lightly backhanded him in the chest.

“Every time, you ask him that. Leave him be, he doesn’t like it.”

“Sorry.” Bilius shrugged.

“Percy, mate, come here.” His son obliged, standing before Arthur with a very serious expression as the latter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying not to smile inappropriately. Arthur would never dream of laughing _at_ Percy, but the boy was just so curiously fretful, and for the life of him Arthur could never figure out where he’d got it from or what on earth there was to worry about at six.

“Are you and Charlie fighting again?” he asked.

“I haven’t been fighting with Charlie!” protested Percy indignantly. “But he only wants to play with Bill, and he says I can’t even play with him when Bill goes to school, _and_ he says that everyone is going to school except me because I haven’t done magic yet.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“He says I should have done it by now.”

“Well, you know, Uncle Bilius is almost thirty and he still doesn’t know how to do magic.”

Bilius chuckled into his glass; the joke, however, was lost on poor Percy, who now looked even more distraught.

“I’m only teasing you, and so is Charlie. Besides, Charlie forgets -- ”

“Bloody ‘ansum!” burst out Bilius, looking in the direction of Bill flying. “Artie, did you see that roll? Who taught him that? That was gorgeous.”

“Channeling Gobby, most like,” replied Arthur, distracted from his talk with Percy. “Proper job, my boy!”

Turning back to Percy, Arthur repeated, “Charlie forgets how long you used to stay up in the air when I would throw you up.”

Percy, whose attention had also been drawn to Bill, finally tore his eyes away to respond uncertainly, “He says that’s not proper magic and it was probably you doing it anyway.”

Percy had, in fact, displayed plenty of magical qualities, just none of it had taken the form of property damage like his elder brothers. But fires and loud bangs were more easily noticed.

“Well, it wasn’t me, it was you. Now what do you say?”

Percy was pensive for a moment. “Charlie said I have to sleep by myself all the way up in the new bedroom.”

What on earth Arthur was going to do with Charlie and his incessant harassment of his younger brother, he had no idea. If things kept going this way, Charlie was going to see the magical reaction he apparently wanted from Percy, and it would probably result in the entire house burning down.

The new bedroom to which Percy referred was in the recently added fifth storey of the Burrow, which Arthur had recently built with help from Bilius. Presently, all seven children were sharing three rooms, which was a fine arrangement for now, but the time would come eventually when Ginny would need her own room or Percy and the twins would no longer be able to comfortably cohabit in one room together. There’d also been discussion of giving Bill his own room, as the eldest, though he and Charlie were like two peas in a pod, and he’d expressed no real desire to kick Charlie out.

It had seemed as good a time as ever to add the fifth level, which housed the one additional room, especially since Bill was still around to help Molly look after the younger children while Arthur and Bilius had completed the project.

“You’re not going to sleep up there all by yourself,” he assured Percy. “In fact, that’ll probably be Mum and Dad’s room eventually.”

“But Charlie says —”

“I’ll talk to Charlie. All right?”

Percy nodded dubiously.

“Arthur?” Molly popped her head outside. “Bring the boys inside, please; dinner’s nearly ready.”

“Dreckly, my love,” responded Arthur, making to finish his glass of cider.

“Or _now_ , Arthur?”

At some point in their decade and a half of marriage, Molly had picked up on the fact that when a Devonian said _dreckly_ , his intent could be to complete the task in a matter of minutes or a matter of months.

“Yes, my dear.” Arthur shoved Bilius in the arm as the latter sniggered into his glass. Then, draining the rest of his drink, Arthur ushered Percy inside the house and went to fetch the twins.

“Bill, time to come inside, mate.” When this was met with a groan of disappointment, Arthur checked his watch. “Two more minutes, all right?”

“All right, Dad.”

Now facing the house, having sent the twins inside, Arthur tapped his empty glass absently against his thigh, contemplating the recently added fifth storey with a frown, before glancing at Bilius.

“Oh, no,” protested Bilius, holding up a warning finger, clearly having seen where Arthur’s mind was going. “Don’t you say it.”

Arthur tilted his head, pondering the new construction for possibly the hundredth time. “Are you sure it looks level?”

“Don’t you fucking start.” His brother’s voice carried the exasperation of someone who’d been dealing with this for some twenty years, though a laugh rippled through it. “We’ve been over this ten times. It’s perfectly level. Three solid days we spent on that. If you start messing with it and you cock it up, I ain’t helping.”

Whatever response Arthur was about to give died in his throat as he caught sight of a disheveled mop of hair passing by the open doorway inside the house.

“Oh, Charlie?” he called mildly, causing the figure to backtrack and pop its head through the doorway.

Charlie always seemed to be wearing a slightly guilty but self-satisfied expression strongly reminiscent of the dear departed Fabian Prewett, and Arthur had always found it difficult to be cross with him -- well, it was difficult to be cross with any of them, but Charlie’s personal brand of charm was especially disarming.

“Come here, please.” Arthur crouched to eye level with Charlie. “What’s going on with you and Percy?”

“Nothing,” said Charlie unconvincingly.

“Charlie…”

His boy scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground. “I don’t want to play with him, he’s too little. He always bothers me.”

Arthur sighed. “That’s bad form, Charlie, he looks up to you. You’ve got to be fair to him, he’s your brother.”

“Ha!” inserted Bilius pointedly.

“You stay out of this,” replied Arthur with a quick smile, turning back to his son. “Why would you say those things to your brother? You know full well he’s done magic. Don’t you want him to go to school with you eventually?”

Charlie wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“Charlie!”

His son’s brow furrowed as he looked at the ground.

“You’d better learn to get on with him or you’ll be awful lonely when Bill’s gone in a couple of weeks. Both of you.”

The way Charlie looked up at him in response prompted things to click in Arthur’s head in a way that made him feel like quite the idiot for not having seen it before.

“We won’t say anymore about it now, all right? But if I have to hear about this again, Mum’s getting involved. Is that going to happen?”

Charlie shook his head, wide-eyed.

“All right. Let’s go inside. Bill, pack it in!”

Bill soared towards the house and, once low to the ground, hopped off his broom while still in motion, the broom dropping to the ground unceremoniously in the absence of its rider.

Arthur sighed as he and Bilius watched Bill disappear inside the house. “I don’t know who’s having a harder time of Bill going to school: Charlie, Percy, or Molly.”

“Or you,” added Bilius lightly.

Arthur didn’t have the heart to try to contradict him.

There was the expense of Bill starting school, certainly -- not an insurmountable obstacle, though it was an unwelcome reminder of the fact that the expense would only grow in the years to come, a dilemma that Arthur had not yet managed to solve in his own mind.

There was the fact that, despite Adom Tutuola’s assertion four years earlier, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts had not been a plush assignment allowing Arthur to leave early every day -- not at the height of the war -- and even though it had been a year since You-Know-Who's disappearance, the raids had continued as the Ministry tracked down remaining Dark wizards, frequently keeping Arthur at work late, to his own chagrin and that of Molly’s. Things were finally starting to slow down… just in time for Bill to leave.

There was the distinct possibility that Charlie and Percy would finally kill each other without Bill’s stabilizing presence, not to mention the additional pressure on Molly without the eldest around to help her. Percy had already shown himself willing and able to rise to the occasion helping with the younger children, but Charlie was a little less concerned with concepts as silly as maintaining order.

And beyond all these, there was the nagging, unwelcome feeling that this overcrowded little house was going to feel inexplicably empty without Arthur’s first boy around.

Bilius slapped Arthur on the arm companionably. “Talk to Mother. Let ‘em buy the boy some damn books. It’s too early for winter. Now come on -- I’m starving.”


	3. 1989

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **1989**
> 
> _Thirty-nine isn't too young for grey hairs... right?_  
> 
> 
> * * *

Arthur had been fascinated by the idea of Muggle moving pictures -- films, they called them -- ever since he’d learned about them in school, and it had always seemed to him a huge failing of wizardkind that their own pictures -- though they moved -- didn’t make any sound at all. (Portraits could speak, of course, but those were governed by entirely different magical principles, everybody knew that.)

It did occur to him, however, that if photographs could speak, nobody would ever have a moment’s peace — if there was any to be had in the first place.

If an album full of Weasley family photographs could speak, Arthur suspected it would be a never-ending stream of “Mum!”; “Dad!”; and “Get out of my room!” (In short, the same kind of things that could be heard on a daily basis anyway.)

“Get out of my room” -- or some variation thereof -- had been a recurring theme in the Weasley household for the better part of a decade. As everybody grew and took up more and more of the woefully insufficient space, Bill’s and Charlie’s repeated “Bugger off, Percy!” had given way to the twins’ insistent “No, Ron, go play with Ginny!” and Percy’s irritable “Mum, tell Ginny to _get out of my room!_ ”

The eldest boys having gone off to school had lessened this strain considerably during the school months, and judging from the lack of any negative correspondence from school concerning his boys’ conduct (aside from the occasional detention Charlie was determined to land himself in), Arthur had to conclude that the boys either got on famously in a different enough environment, or else that they simply went about acting as if they didn’t know one another.

But they were neither killing each other nor being expelled, and their marks were excellent, so whatever they were doing, Arthur wasn’t about to question it.

With the twins setting off for Hogwarts, the house was certain to be eerily calm now -- though, seeing as nothing could be quiet where Fred and George were involved, it made sense that this included the matter of school preparations. Specifically, there was the matter of buying new supplies -- two sets this year -- which did not come easily. Not at all the boys’ fault, of course, but Arthur should have seen the storm on the horizon the moment Molly started invoking the concept of _sharing_ \-- a concept with which all of the children were familiar by now, but which still involved a degree of resentment and resistance.

“Now, Fred,” said Molly as she cleaned up after breakfast one day, “you’ll have Bill’s cauldron and scales, he didn’t take them with him; and George, I’ll just ask Charlie to share his with you. You won’t ever have Potions at the same time, so you can switch off -- ”

“I can’t, Mum,” interjected Charlie, the only one still lingering over his food, eating what might have been his seventy-fifth sausage that morning. “NEWT-level Potions, y’know? We’ll have assignments we have to brew for days.”

“Oh.” Molly waved her hand distractedly. “Then Percy -- where’s Percy? Percy!” she called. The subject in question had already retreated to the silent bubble of his bedroom after having finished his own breakfast.

The soft sound of bare feet on the stairs was followed by Percy’s politely questioning face coming into view. “Hi, Mum.”

“Percy, dear, we’re just talking about school supplies.”

“Well, I don’t think I need any except the boo— ”

“No, I know, dear. I was just saying, Fred’s going to use Bill’s old cauldron, and I’ll need you to switch off yours with George whenever he has Potions.”

Percy looked scandalized. “Switch off-- I can’t share with George!”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “And why on earth not?”

“Yeah,” interjected Fred. “I share everything with George, what makes you think you’re special?”

Arthur folded down one corner of his paper, watching this exchange warily.

A flush crept over Percy’s face. “No, it’s -- it’s not -- Mum, they -- they -- ”

“Words, Perce, words,” teased Charlie.

“They won’t share with me, I know they won’t!” Percy finally managed. “They’re always taking my things and hiding them, the moment they have my school things they’re not going to give them back!”

“Nonsense,” said Molly brusquely. “Of course, they will. Won’t you, boys?” With a sharp look at the twins, she stepped outside to fetch the washing that had been hung up to dry.

Fred and George had plastered innocent smiles across their faces that made them look very much like a pair of fallen angels, in stark contrast to the look of sheer panic upon Percy’s face.

“They won’t!” Percy protested earnestly when he caught Arthur’s eye, his own brown eyes wide behind his glasses. “Look, they’re already thinking about it! And Professor Snape gives at least two weeks’ detention to anyone who comes to class unprepared!”

“Oh my, Percy in detention,” said George. “That would be awful!”

“Terrible,” agreed Fred. They both wore looks that suggested they did not think it would be awful or terrible in the slightest.

“Dad!” implored Percy, clutching his head in his hands.

Arthur sighed, lowering the paper. “Nobody’s going to be in detention.” He hesitated. “I need you boys to all pull together on this one, all right? Can you do that?” He looked to the twins, who nodded just convincingly enough for Arthur to leave it, and then to Percy, who started to open his mouth to say something but then apparently thought better of it.

Molly reappeared at that moment. “Would anyone else like to argue about this with me?” she challenged, glancing around the room. All heads shook in the negative.

“No, Mum,” Percy said quietly but clearly when her gaze fell on him, standing a little straighter with his chin up. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, dear. It’ll be fine.” She pointed at the twins. “No nonsense from you, hear me?”

“Yes, Mum,” their voices rang in unison, and Arthur made a mental wager with himself as to how many Howlers Molly would have to send over the next year.

* * *

Charlie awoke ill the following day, when they were all to go to Diagon Alley, and Molly nearly sat out the entire trip to stay home with him until Arthur joined in Charlie’s protestations that he would certainly live for a few hours on his own, and all he was going to do was sleep anyway. Charlie gave his parents a weak smile as they double-checked what he needed by way of school supplies before closing his door behind them.

The annual shopping trip was surprisingly exhausting with five kids rather than the usual seven -- by now everyone was quite old enough to have a mind of their own, which rather complicated daily life. Ron was struck with a mixture of boredom and resentment at being hauled along on a shopping trip for the benefit of everybody else except him and Ginny, and Molly managed this by assigning him the important task of safeguarding all of Charlie’s things; Ron was so delighted by this honor that they didn’t hear one more complaint from him all afternoon (though it did have the unintended consequence of irking Ginny).

However, with fewer kids to watch, and none truly little anymore, the whole process was rather more streamlined, as it was easier for Arthur and Molly to separate and cover more ground.

When they finally arrived back at home, nearly a full hour earlier than anyone had anticipated, Ron wasted no time in running off to Charlie’s room, eager to deliver his elder brother’s new school books. “Charlie! Charlie, Mum said I could bring your books to you!” This was followed by a few perfunctory raps and then the sound of a door opening.

“Ron, get out!”

There was the briefest of pauses, and then -- 

“Charlie’s got a girl in his room!” Ron hastened back into view, looking very much as if he did not know what to make of this development.

“Ron, shut up!”

For their parts, the rest of the family seemed to freeze in unison, until Molly recovered first, charging off towards Charlie’s room. Arthur tried weakly to order the other children off to their respective rooms until the situation was cleared up; nobody listened, and Arthur was distracted from this task by the sight of Molly hauling Charlie into the sitting room by his ear.

“Mum, ow!” Charlie was shirtless, and Arthur noticed what seemed to be the end of a hand movement that suggested Charlie had been zipping up his jeans just as his mother hauled him out for public display. Arthur resisted the urge to place his face in his hand.

Percy let out a short laugh before clamping his hand over his mouth; the twins looked like Christmas had come early. Ginny gaped at her mother and brother, and then at the young lady about Charlie’s age shuffling behind them, cheeks pink and eyes averted, straightening her blouse in a nervous fashion.

“Sick, are you?” scolded Molly, and Arthur felt the inexplicable urge to laugh, seeing that Charlie, despite his consternation, also appeared very pleased with himself.

As Molly ordered the other children to their rooms, Charlie’s friend inched along the wall towards the fireplace, mumbling, “I think I ought to be going…”

“I think that’s a good idea, my dear,” said Arthur sympathetically.

Having overheard this, Charlie raised one hand to wave goodbye, a comically smitten expression on his face, promising, “I’ll Floo you later!”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” snapped Molly, though it seemed to cause Charlie very little in the way of shame.

Arthur cleared his throat to draw the young lady’s attention, gesturing to the fireplace with his eyes, motivated by a mixture of the desire to defuse the situation and the desire to spare the girl also becoming the focus of Molly’s ire. Nodding, the girl took a handful of Floo powder and, after one further glance back at Charlie, was on her way home.

“How _dare_ you lie to us!” The interloper having now gone, Molly took her opportunity to fully lay into Charlie for the next twenty minutes, now and again appealing to Arthur for support.

Molly ran a tight ship, while Arthur had always been more inclined to let slide his children acting like, well, children. However, he did not think it fair to undermine Molly in front of them.

“Mum’s right, you shouldn’t have lied to us— ” Arthur began fairly the first time Molly demanded his input.

“That’s right, it is absolutely appalling!” Molly cut across him, saving Arthur from having to say anything further, at least for that moment. Charlie bore all of this with an appropriately somber look.

Once Molly had at last ordered Charlie back to his room, she turned to Arthur. “You have to go talk to him.”

Arthur was bemused. “Didn’t we just — ”

“No, you have to _talk_ to him.” Molly gave him a purposeful stare, and Arthur did not like the direction this seemed to be going. “You know. About _that_.”

“Well, it… I’d say he already knows about that if he was — ” Arthur cut short his little joke under Molly’s withering glare, but then added, “He’s almost of age, you know.”

“And what of it? He’s sixteen, he’s got two more years of school, two more years of living under this roof, and unless you’re feeling sentimental for the days of changing nappies, it’s in your interest to make sure he’s not going about getting any girls in trouble.”

“I think that might be a bit of an over— ”

Molly’s eyebrows flew towards her hairline, and Arthur caught himself in time to keep from saying the Word That Must Never Be Said.

“You know what, I’ll go talk to him,” he recovered smartly, and he set off towards Charlie’s room, where he paused with his hand on the doorknob for as long as he thought he reasonably could get away with.

He’d managed to go nearly twenty years without having to have this conversation with any of his kids. Arthur himself had learned about these things the traditional way: from his elder brother and school mates. He’d assumed his brother had learned about it from friends, because Septimus certainly didn’t talk about these things, and he could only conclude that Bill’s friends had covered the territory well enough, because Bill had never asked a thing about it — neither had Charlie, for that matter.

Concentrating very hard on not pulling a face, Arthur knocked at Charlie’s door before announcing himself and entering. Charlie, properly clad now, looked hilariously at ease for someone who’d just been caught almost literally with his trousers down and publicly shamed for it, but he had the decency to avert his eyes for a second with an apologetic shrug.

“Erm…” Arthur knew rationally that this was not going to get any easier the longer he stood there, so he ploughed on with it. “I need to talk to you about what just happened.”

Charlie looked puzzled. “Mum already said I’m doing all the cleaning until I leave for school. And, y’know... I know I shouldn’ta done it.”

“Yeah… but I need to talk to you about, y’know…” Arthur felt himself coloring as Charlie stared at him expectantly. “Being... _responsible_ when you’re with— ”

“Oh my god, Dad, no.” Charlie clamped his hands over his ears, his eyes wide at first before he squeezed them shut, cringing. “Please, no.”

Arthur couldn’t help but be heartened by the fact that this was equally unpalatable to the both of them. He pushed on. “Well, Charlie, you were just — ”

“I know. Dad, please.” Charlie’s face was in his hands now, and Arthur found himself amused to see that Charlie was capable of awkwardness, shyness, and even something resembling shame.

“Well, what did you expect? You know, now that I know you’re…” Despite his best efforts, Arthur was most almost certainly pulling a face now, and for this reason he was glad that his son was pointedly not looking at him. “I need to be certain you know to be safe about it.”

“Yes.” Charlie looked absolutely wretched. “I know. I mean, I already know.”

“How — ”

“Bill…. Bill’s covered everything. With me. Okay?”

So the natural order _was_ still intact.

“Including —”

“Yes! Everything. Please, Dad, I will actually die if you keep trying to talk about this.”

An excruciating silence fell between them as they avoided one another’s eyes, Arthur trying to decide whether to allow himself to be satisfied with this conclusion. It was Charlie who broke the tension, apparently hoping to assuage his father’s concerns.

“And I wasn’t… we weren’t doing that, anyway. Y’know, I wasn’t…” He waved his hand vaguely.

“Flying for the goalposts?” Arthur offered, prompting Charlie to let out a distraught sound like a dying animal.

Not wishing to torture either of them any further, Arthur made to leave the room, but he stopped abruptly with his hand on the doorknob.

“Which one of you has talked to Percy?”

Red-cheeked, Charlie looked up at him, summoning a bit of his usual self-assurance as he replied, “Percy looks at a girl and he forgets the alphabet, I really don’t think you need to worry about him.”

Arthur could not stop himself countering, “Sometimes I look at your mum and I forget the alphabet,” prompting Charlie to pull the collar of his shirt up over his face in despair.

* * *

Molly was still fuming when they turned in for bed later that night. She had a book open but appeared to have been reading the same page for fifteen minutes, and she pointedly ignored Arthur as he lay propped on one elbow, watching her for a moment.

“You can’t be too angry with him,” he offered at last.

“Oh, yes, I can.” She turned the page of her book, though Arthur was certain it was for show.

“Can you?” he countered gently, with a meaningful stare, as he debated internally what he was about to say next. “Isn’t that a bit… hypocritical?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.” Though she may not have been able to see the little smile playing across his face, intent as she was on staring daggers at her book, Arthur let the cheeky tone of his voice make his point.

It worked, and Molly slammed her book shut and glared at him.

“That is not the same! We weren’t in your parents’ house!”

“No, actually, I think we were in yours.”

She gaped for a second or two before shutting her mouth and flushing scarlet, cracking her book once again for something to look at.

Arthur grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. “Forgot about that, did you? I think I feel insulted.”

Still blushing, Molly did not respond, and Arthur shook with silent mirth.

“Molly…”

He could see her mouth twisting as she pretended not to hear him.

“Molly…” He drummed his fingers on her thigh.

She chewed her lip, almost certainly trying not to smile.

He pushed himself up so he could whisper directly into her ear.

“Mollywobbles.”

She slammed the book shut again and whacked him on the arm with it before allowing him to toss it over his shoulder onto the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur was on the verge of dozing off, when Molly’s sleepy voice caused his eyes to fly open again.

“You talked to Ronnie, too, didn’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Two chapters in one weekend, yes indeed! I expect to have all chapters posted by the end of April, if not sooner, at the rate of 1-2 per week. If you're reading, I'd love to hear from you in a comment!_


	4. 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **1992**  
>  _Buying school books should not be anywhere near this hard._  
> 
> 
> * * *

If Arthur had a Sickle for every time Molly had complained over the past ten days about the cost of Gilderoy Lockhart books -- well, Arthur would have had enough money for five sets of Gilderoy Lockhart books. Come to that, if Arthur had a Sickle for every time his wife had blushed whilst talking about Gilderoy bleeding Lockhart…

Arthur knew full well that they were poor; what Molly thought could be gained by fretting about it incessantly, he had no idea. What he did know was that in the past week he’d come treacherously close to throwing in her face that the reason he was stuck in a low-paying job was that she’d asked him to take it in the first place. When he’d caught himself one day tempted to mention that Molly’s idea of trying for a girl years ago was part of the reason they were buying five sets of books instead of three, Arthur had determined that the most reasonable course of action was to lock himself in his work shed for a few hours, where he could feel like total shit and contemplate his feelings of guilt without interruption.

But, hey, the car worked, and that was something.

(And he would _not_ have lost his job had the boys been seen flying it, whatever Molly may have to say about it. Because at the end of the day, no, it _wasn’t_ illegal to enchant a car to fly, so long as the intent to actually fly it hadn’t been formed at the time of the enchantment -- and yes, he _had_ made sure that loophole was there when he’d written the law.)

Between Ron and the twins’ excursion to Surrey and the financial burden of getting the kids through this next school year as foretold in the recently arrived school letters, it seemed an inauspicious start to the end of the summer. But with the addition of Harry to the household, most everybody was in high spirits -- Percy and Ginny were rather keeping to themselves, but it was an excellent diversion for Ron and the twins, who might otherwise have been at each other’s throats; and Molly, when she wasn’t fretting about school costs, was in her element.

Harry was really a delightful boy, and it seemed a shame to Arthur — particularly after he’d learnt the reason his children had felt compelled to rescue Harry from his home in Surrey — that Harry Potter of all people had been so disconnected from magical society. Harry was bright, there was no doubt about it, but every day there seemed to be something new that boggled his mind -- and while he was elated more often than not, on occasion one could see a flash of embarrassment at not knowing something that everyone else in the house took for granted.

Floo powder, for instance.

When Molly offered the flower pot to Harry, and Ron exclaimed that Harry had never traveled by Floo, Arthur caught the brief but self-conscious look that crossed Harry’s face at his own ignorance. Arthur redirected the conversation to Muggle transportation, something Harry clearly knew about which the rest, largely, did not.

** “I went on the Underground,” said Harry by way of explanation as to how he’d got to Diagon Alley the last year.

** “Really?” asked Arthur encouragingly, feigning ignorance of his own. ** “Were there _escapators?_ ” Escalators, of course, he’d meant, and his own children rolled their eyes a bit at ridiculous old Dad; but Harry looked heartened and cracked a little smile at the notion that there was something he had a mastery of, that a grown man did not.

By the time Harry followed Fred and George into the fireplace, he looked a bit more at ease… but things are rarely so simple.

What’s the saying about inauspicious things? They come in threes?

Boys steal just-technically-not-illegal car… Hogwarts hires raging narcissist whose books cost more than Arthur paid for his entire house in 1970… Harry Potter gets lost in Knockturn Alley while in Arthur’s care.

Check, check, and check.

By the time they’d tracked the boy down -- none the worse for wear, thankfully -- Molly was in rare form. But when everyone had settled down and they’d begun heading for the bank, Arthur listened with keen interest to Harry’s tale of seeing Lucius Malfoy in Borgin and Burkes. Of course Lucius had been in there -- in broad daylight, too. Arrogance, pure and simple.

** “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something…”

Molly wasted no time in taking the wind out of his sails. ** “You be careful, Arthur. That family’s trouble, don’t go biting off more than you can chew.”

His wife’s words hit him like a Bludger to the gut. Was that what she thought of him?

It was only his bleeding job, wasn’t it, the one he’d been doing for fourteen years? He’d joined Misuse of Muggle Artifacts at the height of the War in the seventies, and he’d assisted with the confiscation of his fair share of illegal artifacts from Dark wizards.

Arthur couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so insufficient as he had during this godforsaken week.

** “So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” he challenged, hardly concealing his resentment. He saw Harry, Ron, and Ginny glance at him, and he realized he must have said it too loudly. The twins were preoccupied with whispering conspiratorially to one another some distance away. Percy had his hands in his pockets and was looking resolutely ahead as he walked. Molly ignored Arthur and swept through the Gringotts entrance.

This argument went no further once Arthur noticed that Hermione, who’d joined them on the Gringotts steps, had run ahead to gain her parents’ attention and introduce them. Nora and Edward Granger were lovely people, and Arthur made small talk while his family waited for their escort to their vault. Hermione prodded her mother to hand over a bit of Muggle money so she could show Arthur the various coins and paper bills.

“So light,” commented Arthur appreciatively, holding up a ten-pound note to the light to study it more clearly. “It really does seem more practical. Except… possibly not quite as durable?”

Mr. Granger pondered that. “Never really thought about it. I suppose as long as you don’t light it on fire...”

“Ah. Well, you never really know in my house.”

Once the visit to the vault was complete, the decision was made that they should all go their separate ways for an hour before meeting at the bookshop. Molly and Ginny were off to buy school robes, the twins set off to find a friend of theirs, and Percy muttered something having to do with ** “new quill” and “somewhere quiet.” Arthur took the Grangers for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione seemed to take after her mother in stature, petite and slight of frame, but the curls she’d certainly inherited from her father. Both Mr. and Mrs. Granger were the quiet sort, but they seemed happy enough to talk about their jobs, although Arthur did have to interrupt frequently to ask them to define something new. Arthur was thrilled to learn of the existence of something called an X-Ray machine and wondered to himself how he might get his hands on such a thing.

“But please tell us more about you,” Mrs. Granger implored. “Hermione says you work for your government.”

“I do! My assignment is the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“Goodness. What sort of… Muggle… items are people misusing?”

“Oh, all sorts, all sorts. Toasters… ice skates… eight-track players…”

“Eight-tracks!” Mrs. Granger let out a bubbling laugh. “Lord, I haven’t heard that word in a few years.” 

Arthur was generally aware that the Muggle musical technology had changed in recent years, as it always seemed to do, but of course the Ministry didn’t care to invest in keeping up with the new information; and the last formal Muggle Studies class he’d taken was in 1966, because his parents had not deemed it a necessary enough subject to continue into his NEWT years and run the risk of detracting from his other studies.

Chuckling, Mr. Granger waved to the bartender for another round, and Arthur let out a little sigh of relief when Mr. Granger took it upon himself to pay for this one.

Their hour ran out rather quickly, and by the time they’d arrived at Flourish and Blotts, Molly was already in line for an autograph -- of course, she was -- accompanied by Ginny.

Leaning against a pillar, Arthur watched her for a moment as she repeatedly patted her hair and smoothed her robes. He was forcibly reminded of one particular day, over twenty-five years ago, when they had just begun dating. Arthur had strolled down the main castle steps, a bit early on his way to meet her out on the Hogwarts grounds, and when he’d neared their meeting spot, he’d stopped — for Molly was already there, pacing back and forth, fretting over her appearance just as she was doing now, smoothing her hair, brushing off her robes, pulling out a pocket mirror and examining her face for nonexistent flaws. It had struck him as breathtakingly sweet, and he’d ducked behind a tree and watched this behavior for a moment, wondering why on earth Molly Prewett should be agonizing over looking pretty enough for Arthur sodding Weasley.

He felt his mouth pull up in a smile as he watched her now, the memory overpowering the fact that she was currently engaging in this ritual for the benefit of some other man. On that occasion in 1966, Molly had blushed as Arthur approached, hastily stowing her mirror in her pocket and claiming to have had something in her eye. Now, Molly’s eyes rolled when they found Arthur’s, and she broke the trance by mouthing, “Where were you?” With a little sigh, Arthur waded through the crowd to join her.

“Arthur, will you please go find your sons, I don’t know what in the world they’re up to…”

Ron appeared almost precisely at that moment with his friends, and Percy stood a short distance away perusing a book, which left only the most disconcerting two missing.

As he went to track down Fred and George, he passed Percy and noticed that the book he was reading was one of Lockhart’s. Percy had such a look of disdain upon his face that Arthur had to contain his laughter; it became more difficult by the second as Percy’s nose wrinkled in unmistakable contempt for what he was seeing.

Bless that boy.

Percy must have noticed a pair of eyes upon him, for he glanced up at Arthur, slammed the book shut, and replaced it on the shelf, muttering, “Never going to pass my NEWTs…”

Eventually, he found the twins lurking in the Healing Arts section, which in Arthur’s estimation did not bode well for anything, and he wrenched them away from whatever mischief lay hidden in that noble profession and led them towards the front of the shop. Preoccupied as he was with escaping the melee of Lockhart fanatics, he only barely registered something odd about the way Harry and Hermione were clinging to the back of Ron’s jacket as Ron exchanged words with a blond boy. Arthur had just begun his attempt to shepherd all the children towards the exit when he heard it.

** “Well, well, well -- Arthur Weasley.”

There were a number of things in the world that Arthur did not have fucking time for, and this was one of them. Unless it involved throwing the speaker in a jail cell -- then he’d find the time.

** “Lucius.” Arthur threw him only a brief look and attempted to usher his children out of the shop.

Lucius Malfoy had been a shit in school and he was a shit now, a perfect illustration of the fact that all the gold in the world could not buy class. As a Second Year, he’d freely mouthed off to Arthur when the latter was Head Boy, and the only way to manage him was to ignore him like the cretin he was, though strong was the urge to do otherwise sometimes.

** “Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

With that, Malfoy reached into Ginny’s cauldron -- into Arthur’s daughter’s property, as if the entire world and its contents belonged to him -- and pulled out a book, and Arthur’s skin flashed hot and cold all at once as he suppressed the urge to use a number of curses with which Malfoy was no doubt familiar.

Arthur could weather Malfoy tolerably when required… but not like this. Not in front of his wife. Not in front of his children.

** “Obviously not,” leered Malfoy, regarding the battered secondhand book and confirming just about every suspicion and worry Arthur had about what his children might have to deal with at school when it was clear that their belongings were pre-owned. ** “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

_No._

_Please._

_Not in front of my children._

Arthur’s breath came short and arduous, but he concentrated on keeping his voice even. ** “We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy.”

_Such as you curiously behaving like a_ nouveau riche _vulgarian twat,_ was the unspoken jab he held back in the presence of his family -- with some difficulty, stretched beyond recognition as every nerve in his body was.

Malfoy made a quip about Hermione’s family as his eyes strayed to her parents before adding to Arthur, ** “And I thought your family could sink no lower.”

Arthur saw red, and then he didn't see anything at all -- not that he could remember. What happened next was quite a blur, which certainly didn’t help him over the next couple of days whenever Molly demanded an explanation for his behavior. But judging from the way his bruised hand throbbed with pain for the next week -- not to mention the shiner already blossoming around Malfoy’s eye when they were finally separated -- he’d got a few good blows in.

Muggle dueling at the age of forty-two was not the finest moment of Arthur’s life, but neither was being publicly dressed down for his poverty, and for that reason Arthur had a difficult time feeling truly bad for what he’d done. Molly’s fretting notwithstanding, it seemed their children had been largely unfazed by the whole thing: Ronnie and Harry acted no differently in the following days; and if and when Fred and George talked about it (when Molly wasn’t within earshot), they were highly congratulatory of Arthur’s role in the exhibition, arguing over which of them got the honor of portraying him in their reenactments.

But Percy…

Percy hardly looked at Arthur in the week following Diagon Alley.

And though Arthur tried not to dwell on it -- telling himself that it was no different than the sixteen-year-old’s generally withdrawn behavior these days -- now and again he caught himself wondering whether the cause of Percy’s consternation was the brawl itself… or what had preceded it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know this chapter was kind of a downer. The next one is more lighthearted. You'll find the chapters will sort of alternate in this manner. I do adore the Weasley family, if that weren't already abundantly clear, but I'm also trying to be realistic about the kinds of things that can put strain on a person, a marriage, and a family._
> 
> _You'll notice a number of dialogue lines in this chapter are preceded by two asterisks. Those lines are pulled directly from_ Chamber of Secrets _chapter 4. When you look at that chapter, there's really a lot going on with Arthur there, and it's one of the points in canon that has really informed my interpretation and portrayal of him. (By the way, how many of you remembered that Molly made a reference in that chapter to Arthur having authored legislation? That was a fun tidbit I came across when I went back and researched various Arthur appearances in canon.)_
> 
> _As always, I'd love to hear from you in a review!_


	5. 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **1994**
> 
> _This sort of troublemaking absolutely came from the Prewett side._  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

* * *

  


Strictly speaking, Arthur was not in trouble. Not really.

Molly may have had a few words for him, but in the end, at forty-four, in his own house, he was in more of a position to be dishing out punishment than receiving it.

Still, sitting here at the table, Fred on his one side and George on his other, evoked a curiously familiar feeling. As Molly stalked by, glaring at them, deciding what to do with the lot of them, he was forcibly reminded of one agonizing afternoon in Sixth Year spent sitting outside Professor McGonagall’s office, awaiting judgment for what Benny Culpepper still referred to as the Goddamned Skrewt Incident of ‘66.

Only back then, Molly had not quite been glaring at him.

She’d long since forbidden him to mention this fact to any of their children, but back in the day their mother had had quite a weakness for disobedient young men. Fred and George could be explained in one simple word: Payback.

The problem was that Arthur had never really been the troublemaking sort -- he’d been a Prefect, and more importantly, the Goddamned Skrewt Incident had been entirely Silvain Shafiq’s fault.

  


* * *

  


_Sandwiched between Benny and Sil on the hard stone bench, Arthur found himself grateful for Benny’s string of jokes aimed at cutting the tension -- if not for his uncontrollable chuckling, Arthur might have fainted from nerves at the thought of what lay in store for him. For his part, Sil was occupied with mouthing reassurances to his girlfriend Deirdre Nott, who’d come to provide moral support — in the form of flirtation — from a hidden spot down the corridor. A pair of brown eyes in an exceptionally pretty face framed by copper hair peered around Deirdre’s shoulder._

_“Hey, Dee!” called Benny, ignoring Arthur’s attempts to shush him and avoid further inflaming the wrath of their Head of House. “If Molly’s going to make eyes at Weasley, bring a friend for me, too! It’s only polite.”_

_Arthur felt himself flush from his collarbone to his hairline, but Molly would later admit to him that she wished she had a photograph of how smug he looked._

“What _is going on out here?” thundered Professor McGonagall, abruptly opening her door, causing Deirdre and Molly to clamp their hands over their mouths to conceal their giggles as all three boys jumped and sat perfectly straight. McGonagall had only recently taken up the position as Head of House, but her reputation was well established after a decade of teaching._

_Without waiting for an answer, McGonagall summoned, “Mr. Weasley,” and Arthur thought he might well puke right there._

_“Go with Godric,” intoned his mates softly on either side of him, patting him on the back._

_Walking into certain peril causes one to do funny things, as do pretty brown eyes, and as Arthur rose to face his fate, he found himself pressing his palms together in front of him and mouthing to Molly Prewett, “Pray for me?”_

_She beamed, Arthur winked, and McGonagall let out an apoplectic,_ “Mr. Weasley!”

_It was worth the month of detention and the two solid weeks’ worth of Howlers from home._

_Before the Goddamned Skrewt Incident, Molly had never really given Arthur the time of day._

  


* * *

  


Arthur sat with Fred and George more as a show of solidarity than anything else -- he’d been upset with them, too, yes, but he’d never meant for Molly to find out. And there was also the fact that…

“This is actually all your fault, you know,” offered George brightly, very plainly speaking to Arthur, and Arthur found himself torn between laughing in astonishment and telling him off.

“Yeah,” chimed Fred. _"Eckeltricity.”_ He emphasized the word ironically and shook his head. “Haven’t heard you pull out that one in a while.”

Arthur could not very well tell him off for being right. He knew perfectly well how to pronounce _electricity._ Probably the last time the twins had heard him purposely mispronounce it was when Harry first started coming around as a child and Arthur rather thought that being silly might put him at ease.

“You were _so_ messing with those Muggles,” added George with a grin.

“Those Muggles” to which George referred were Harry’s aunt and uncle, who’d turned out to be every bit as intolerable -- and intolerant -- as Harry had ever let on.

Despite what he’d known or suspected about Harry’s treatment at the hands of the Dursleys, Arthur had resolved to be nothing but polite when he and the boys had gone to fetch Harry from Surrey for the summer. And polite Arthur had been, to a fault.

But Arthur could not have missed the way the Dursleys looked at him -- equal parts derision and absurd, overblown horror -- and the way they’d pointedly resisted all his attempts at conversation; and he’d known within himself that it had nothing to do with economic status -- not primarily, anyway. Rather, Harry’s family hated magic. They thought it was inferior, and they thought it was wrong, and years of knowing that marvelous Harry was a wizard had done nothing to change their minds — and if they behaved that way towards Arthur for five minutes, who knew what Harry had been putting up with for thirteen years.

If there was one thing Arthur hated, it was a bigot.

Still, Arthur had no desire to damage what little relationship he had with Harry’s family, nor magical-Muggle relations at large, and Arthur had remained the perfect gentleman.

A perfect gentleman who curled just a little harder into his West Country accent and mispronounced _electricity_ and told them about his plug collection. Just to see how they might react. Since they were intent on treating him as something sub-human anyway.

“All right,” said Arthur finally, “but I didn’t _touch_ them, nor give them anything dodgy to eat, and that boy is a _child,_ and I didn’t do it _because_ they’re Muggles -- ”

“Neither did we.”

“That boy is a child,” he repeated. “Do you know how terrified his parents were? They don’t know I’m not actually a yokel; what they _do_ know is that their son’s tongue grew four fee-- Stop laughing, all right, I’m still angry with you.”

In retrospect, Arthur might not have been quite so angry had he not spent what felt like half an eon trying to set Dudley right, being continually thwarted by the Dursleys’ hand-wringing and pearl-clutching and shrieking as if Arthur were brandishing an axe. Had they been any random Muggles seeing magic for the first time, he might have understood genuine fear, but for a pair of people who knew they were related to a wizard, that sort of reaction seemed self-indulgently myopic and hysterical. By the time Arthur had Flooed home he’d been in a right state, and he’d been rather louder in his scolding of the twins than he should have been.

Which brought them back to Molly’s involvement, which in turn brought them back to why Arthur was sitting here as if he were awaiting trial. He didn’t really feel right leaving Fred and George to face it alone.

Molly stalked by again, muttering something like, “Deal with you shortly.”

But whether you’re sixteen or sixty, facing certain peril causes one to do funny things -- as do pretty brown eyes -- and when Molly’s glare found her husband he crossed his arms, cocked his head, and winked.

Molly narrowed her eyes, which could have boded very well or very badly for him, but Arthur would sort that out later.

When Molly left the kitchen again, Arthur looked to Fred on his left and George on his right, ruffled each one’s hair, then crossed his arms once more and awaited his fate for the Goddamned Toffee Incident of ‘94.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(I'm sure you recognize the Ton-Tongue Toffee debacle from_ Goblet of Fire!)


	6. 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **1995**
> 
> _Arthur did not mean to insult Percy… but what could he do if Percy was intent on taking it that way?_  
> 

* * *

  


Arthur did not mean to insult Percy… but what could he do if Percy was intent on taking it that way?

“Don’t you think it’s a bit… _odd_ that they would promote you to that spot right now?”

Oh, he tried to soften the blow, especially seeing how puffed up Percy was about the whole thing — but he could not avoid the bottom line, the ultimate question, the words that had the unintended consequence of (as the Muggles would say) flipping a switch inside of Percy.

True, Percy was a bright young man and a gifted wizard. True, Percy had never met a task he couldn’t complete or an instruction he couldn’t follow. And true, if Percy had been able to add a twenty-fifth hour to the day so he could do that much more work, he’d have done it.

But the boy wasn’t actually daft enough to think it was normal to be appointed to the Minister’s Cabinet a year out of school… was he? Twelve NEWTs be damned -- NEWTs got you in the door at the Ministry; they didn’t launch you into the bureaucratic stratosphere.

Where Percy had previously looked incredulous, if a bit irritated, at Arthur’s underwhelmed reaction to the news, his expression noticeably hardened now.

“Why should that be odd?”

And then, when Arthur didn’t reply -- instead tilting his head with a meaningful gaze, willing Percy to work it out for himself -- Percy repeated, his voice straining deliberately over every word, “Why should that be odd, Father?”

With a sigh, Arthur cast about for the right words. “Percy, you’re young, inexperienced… think reasonably about what’s happening here.”

His son’s face had taken on a pink glow, his voice more insistent. “What exactly _is_ ‘happening here’?”

The silence in the house had become stifling, even though just moments before the younger children had been occupied with depositing their dishes from dinner in the sink. From the sitting room, where he’d moved their conversation upon hearing the news, Arthur could sense four pairs of ears listening intently in the kitchen. In his periphery, Molly came to a slow halt just through the doorway.

“Percy, you’ve got to know that the Minister… in light of recent events… is going to be watching people. Looking for dissenters. People with ties to Harry. Including me. _Especially_ me. And everyone else.” He threw a glance towards the kitchen in reference to the rest of the family, and a part of him did wonder that he even had to explain this. “And you’re… well… giving you this spot is the perfect way to do that, don’t you see?”

Percy looked like he’d been slapped, but he recovered quickly enough and spat, “I don’t know which is worse, the fact that you think I didn’t deserve it or the fact that you think I’d take it to spy on you!”

Arthur tried and probably failed to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I don’t think it of you, I think it of _him._ And speaking of deserving it, you have to admit that that situation last month -- ”

“I was cleared of that!” Now Percy’s face flushed bright red. “And Dominic Bukowski is more senior to me, and he didn’t notice that business with Mr. Crouch, either!”

“It doesn’t matter that you were cleared, it matters that it happened,” said Arthur adamantly. Percy was shaking his head obstinately at his father’s words, and Arthur was determined to make him see reason. “Under any ordinary circumstances it would absolutely be held against you, but it’s not, and you have to see that and ask yourself why! You haven’t been around long enough, but I have, and I know how these things work.”

Percy’s head snapped up. “Oh, really, when was the last time you were anywhere _near_ any important decisions?”

Arthur felt his eyebrows damn near fly off his face, and except for a brief moment where he raised his palm to Molly to indicate she should not step into the middle of this, he remained stock-still, hands on his hips, as he fixed Percy with a pointed stare.

“Once again, please?”

“Oh, are we going to pretend it isn’t true?” Percy scoffed, an absolutely pugnacious look on his face, gathering steam as he went. “While we’re busy talking about ‘how things work’? I learnt very quickly how things work, thank you, at least for me. Had to work twice as hard as anyone else, twice as much, just to convince them that _I’m not you._ Ridiculous for you to say this happened _because_ of you when I think even you know I got this spot _in spite_ of you.”

Molly gasped, and whatever she’d been holding dropped to the floor and shattered, and Arthur just barely resisted the urge to physically recoil from the impact of Percy’s words. For his part, Percy stood frozen, eyes wide, as if surprised to have found himself in this situation, and an unbearably long second passed before -- 

“Everybody to your rooms,” commanded Arthur with absurd calmness, just loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen, never taking his eyes off Percy’s. “ _Now._ And Ginny, go with your brothers.”

In his estimation, it was the first time he hadn’t had to repeat himself before his younger children listened to him. Even the twins, who were adults now, did not argue. Four pairs of feet clambered up the stairs, although Arthur noticed that the noise petered out far too soon.

His eyes flicked briefly to the staircase. “I said go to your rooms, not on the landing.” The footsteps continued upwards.

“Now, my young man,” he said deliberately, returning Percy’s stare. “I believe you were saying something to me.”

“Arthur…” came a whisper off to his side.

“I’ll deal with this, Molly,” he said curtly.

It had been some time since Arthur had begun to suspect that Percy considered himself better than, well, everyone -- and to notice how increasingly dismissive Percy had become of just about anything and everything either of his parents said these days. Well, the moment had arrived for Percy to either be man enough to confirm it, or otherwise to shut his smart mouth.

Percy’s lips were a thin line, his nose slightly wrinkled, his eyebrows knit together, and if his expression betrayed any doubt about his desire to get into this further, that was gone as soon as Arthur cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s bad enough,” began Percy, practically shaking (though whether from fear or rage, Arthur had no idea), “that I’ve had to fight nonstop against your reputation, and the choices you’ve made, the fact that nobody takes you seriously -- the fact that you don’t even _care_ that they don’t. But I’ve done it, no thanks to you, I’ve succeeded where you haven’t, and all you can think to do is try to hold me back -- ”

“The only thing you’ve succeeded in doing is allowing yourself to be used as a pawn, and for what? So you can have a nice title you can brag about? So you can feel big and important? Maybe buy some nice clothes, eh?” Arthur sarcastically eyed his son’s robes.

“You act as if you’re so above everything, the politics are beneath you, you don’t care about expectations -- well, idealism doesn’t put food on the table, now does it?” snapped Percy, looking at him with something that resembled bald hatred.

Arthur’s face was a furnace -- his entire body, really, by this point -- and he supposed the only reason he hadn’t shot through the roof already was a somewhat sick desire to hear exactly what his son really did think of him.

But he was finished with that now.

“Now you listen, and you listen well.” Arthur raised his voice, every inch of him positively vibrating with anger. “You are getting into territory you don’t know the first thing about. I know you think you’re clever, and I know you think you’ve got everything worked out, but let me tell you something: You are just this side of being a _child_.” Percy looked murderous, but Arthur continued. “I don’t care how old you are, and I don’t care who you work for, I will not be spoken to this way, not in my own house. I am your father and -- ”

“Don’t bloody well act like it, do you?” burst out Percy, with the force and fury of a dam breaking, as if his entire life had been leading up to this point. And judging from the keen way he went about it, perhaps it had.

With all the precision of a military attack, Percy reached inside Arthur, located every single one of his insecurities as if he’d plotted a map of Arthur’s heart and brain, and proceeded to lay waste to the entire scene.

And Percy had always been an articulate young man, but judging from the swift delivery of some of his barbs, Arthur wondered whether Percy hadn’t practiced some of these lines in front of a mirror — more than once.

“It’s like you’ve done your best to put us all at a disadvantage. I suppose it’s fine for us not to have any money because you’ve decided that’s what pleases _you?_ You’re totally complacent working that embarrassing job -- and you can’t be bothered about the fact that we hardly get by, or that we can’t even afford -- ”

“That’s enough!”

“No, I’m not finished! Should we talk about Ron having to use Charlie’s broken sodding wand for years -- ”

“It’s not up to you to throw our hard times in my face when you have no idea -- !”

“If we had hard times it was entirely because of you, no matter how hard you try to ignore it! You know, it’s not just you who’s been a laughingstock, it’s all of us! It’s shameful, and it’s selfish!”

“The only thing shameful here is what I’m looking at right now! Every single thing I have ever done has been for you, and your brothers, and your sister, you unappreciative -- ”

“You’re a liar as well! I don’t know who you’ve done it for, but it wasn’t us! If it were, you’d have done better!”

Percy’s eyes were shining, Arthur’s blood was pounding in his ears, and Molly was whimpering, “Percy, stop,” but nobody paid her any heed.

“Life doesn’t work the way you seem to think it does! And don’t you _ever_ accuse me of not doing absolutely everything -- ”

“Well, you either _can’t_ do better or you _won’t,_ so which is it?”

The truth was that even under a Minister who was skeptical of Arthur’s Muggle fascination, Arthur could probably have been a high ranking official in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at this point in his life if he’d wanted to -- just as Adom Tutuola had said all those years ago. He would scarcely have seen his children grow up, and his wife would have hated him, but he could have done it. At least, he could have if not for that step back he’d taken in 1978. He’d never bounced back from it, just as he’d suspected.

Percy didn’t know that -- none of them did -- because Arthur had kept his word to himself and never let on about what had happened.

But now, hearing Percy’s taunts and accusations, Arthur’s resolve was tested like never before. Not only because it was the only truth that could really explain Arthur’s shortcomings, but also because -- as much as Arthur rationally knew it wasn’t Percy’s fault, nor any of the children’s -- for at least a second it would have been immensely gratifying to see that infuriating, superior expression wiped from his son’s face -- to see Percy react to the idea that his very existence was a part of what had led to this reality.

Maybe it was Molly’s presence that kept Arthur from going down that road. Maybe it was the fact that, his earlier order notwithstanding, he’d have been an idiot to believe that the rest of his children hadn’t crept back down to the first floor landing to eavesdrop on this row. Yes, it must have been one of those, because he certainly wasn’t doing it for the benefit of this absolute stranger who used to be his son.

Much later, he would hate himself for having even entertained the thought of throwing the truth in Percy’s face, but in the moment he settled for parrying Percy’s accusation with, “I am not going to justify decades of my life to an ungrateful, self-centered smart-arse -- ”

“Arthur, no!”

“Be quiet, Molly!”

He would later hate himself for that, too.

When the dispute took a turn into the issue of Fudge versus Dumbledore, it seemed… easier somehow. More terrible because both were fully warmed up, deeply entrenched now, shouting like never before; but also, less horrible, because this subject, at least, did not concern Arthur’s failings. On this subject, Percy was entirely in the wrong.

In retrospect, it seemed rather incredible that no wands were drawn, what with words like _jobsworth_ , _small-minded_ , and _traitor_ flying about, not to mention Arthur’s helpful suggestion that while Percy was off being better than the rest of them, perhaps he could afford to get himself some integrity. He didn’t know at what point Molly had started crying, but she was openly sobbing now, though both men continued to ignore her.

“I expect you’ll be leaving, then,” Arthur shot when Percy made it clear that this wasn’t his family anymore.

“Not fast enough,” Percy retorted.

A moment of absurd silence followed, marred only by their labored breathing, during which the two stared at one another as if really seeing each other for the first time. Finally, Percy turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. 

But Arthur found he could not let Percy get away so easily.

“See just how long they keep you around, once they realize they’ve no use for you now.”

Percy halted, tensed, his hands balled into fists at either side, before charging off up the stairs and out of sight. Molly regained herself and made to speak, but Arthur threw her a warning look and she took off after Percy instead, leaving Arthur to storm outside to stalk in resentful circles through the orchard.

* * *

  
The house was eerily quiet when Arthur returned and began to ascend the stairs, but as he did so he heard Molly’s voice pleading in front of the house, followed by a distinct _crack._ Percy had always excelled at silent Apparition, so in Arthur’s estimation, Percy was extraordinarily pissed off and unfocused, or else he fully intended to be heard leaving. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.

Somehow, Arthur knew exactly what was about to follow, and he took the stairs two at a time, that he may perhaps delay the inevitable twenty seconds longer.

Sure enough, Molly swept into their bedroom moments behind Arthur, closing the door and waving her wand to lock and soundproof it — a gesture that historically indicated that they were about to have a very good time or a very bad time.

“Molly,” he began irritably, “for once in your life…”

But that, apparently, was a counterproductive way to try to convince one’s spouse to stay silent.

Tears still glistening on her cheeks, eyes red and puffy from likely a solid hour of crying, Molly nevertheless fixed him with a piercing stare. “You are going to make this right, Arthur.”

He almost laughed.

“He’s a grown man, he’s made his bed. He doesn’t need coddling, and you know he’s never invited it. And the things he said -- ”

“Oh, the things you _both_ said! He’s eighteen; you are forty-five! You know he’s never given either of us the slightest bit of grief, and now, Arthur? _Now?_ Of all the times you could have lost your head?? Fred and George have been in detention for six years straight, Ron stole a _car_ , for God’s sake, and you hardly ever have a cross word for anyone, you’ve never cared about keeping anybody in line -- ”

“Those were different! Did you even hear the appalling things he --”

“I heard the sound of your dignity being bruised!”

“Are you defending him?” he demanded.

“He wasn’t right to say what he did, but…” She threw up her hands and cast about silently for a moment with an agonized look. “Arthur, you told him he didn’t get promoted on his own merit, what were you -- ”

“Well, he didn’t! I was right about everything I said, and I know you know that. Face it, Molly, he is not who we thought he was.”

“Something’s…” Molly sounded breathless. “Something’s happened to him, and now we…”

“He’s conceited, is what’s happened. Thinks he’s better than us. So wrapped up in himself and wanting entirely the wrong things -- ”

“Oh, what _are_ the wrong things? He’s always done everything asked of him, and I never heard a complaint from you whilst he was doing it. And whatever you may have to say about it, wanting a good job is not ‘the wrong thing’ just because you -- ”

She stopped abruptly, face flushed, eyes lifted to the ceiling as if trying to suppress new tears.

“I think I’d like to hear the rest of _that_ thought.”

In reality, he did _not_ want to hear the rest of that thought, and he hoped his face adequately conveyed the notion.

She shook her head and continued in a tone that he supposed was meant to make him feel better, though her frustration shone through as her speech became more frenetic: “You know I’ve always supported you doing what you thought was important work… but you can’t pretend it hasn’t been difficult, you can’t pretend we haven’t had hard times -- ”

“Oh, now I’ll have it from you, will I?”

“You never acknowledge it! You’ve never wanted to! And you don’t like it being pointed out to you.”

They were facing off now from opposite sides of the bed, Arthur shaking his head in bitterness at every word coming out of her mouth.

It was true, that the last thing he needed was Percy (or Molly) telling him that he was a disappointment and a repeated failure -- personally, professionally, and perhaps most importantly, as a provider.

It was rather gratuitous, after all, for them to point out what he’d already known for years.

He just hadn’t thought there was anything to be gained by him complaining about it.

“That’s not the slightest bit true!” he disputed.

“Oh, isn’t it? I’m the only one who frets about it, I get to be the bad one. You remember, when that business with the car happened, it was entirely down to you, and the fines almost put us under, but still I was the only one who worried about it! You thought it was funny!”

“Oh, good, I was wondering how long it would take for the car to come up this time.” He checked his watch sarcastically, and Molly threw up her hands once again, turning away from him.

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him,” he added, his mind reeling.

She whipped around, and her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “It’s not about siding with him.”

“You can’t seriously defend him and stand with me at the same time.”

“Don’t make me choose, don’t you dare make me choose, that is my child!”

“ _He_ had no problem choosing, did he? And after everything you heard down there, it shouldn’t even be a question whether you support me.”

“It’s not a question of me supporting you, you know I do. But I -- ” The momentum of her argument was halted abruptly as a sob broke through. Furious though he was, Arthur could only watch helplessly as Molly clamped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut to regain control.

At last, she finished in a heartbroken whisper.

“I can’t give him up as easily as you are.”

With that, she collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands as her body was wracked with sobs once more.

Arthur still didn’t think Molly had got everything exactly right, but he knew he would have been a right twat to say so.

“Molly…” He began to settle next to her, to place his arms around her, but he found her hand in his face.

“Get away from me.” She sniffled. “I mean it, Arthur. Don’t touch me.”

* * *

  
Distasteful as the idea was that Molly would try to continue carrying on a relationship with Percy as though nothing had happened, more unpalatable to Arthur was watching Molly suffer, particularly when he grudgingly considered the fact that she’d had no say in this turn of events at all. And so when the dust had settled and he’d peeled himself off the ceiling, he didn’t object when she went to London to try to talk to Percy; and when she’d returned home, dispirited, Arthur wisely kept his mouth shut, even while it validated everything about his position.

But as far as Arthur was concerned, he and Percy had nothing more to say to one another.

Arthur found himself sharing a lift one day at work in late September with Hit Wizards Cathal McLaggen and Benwick Bode, trying to ignore McLaggen’s insufferable, booming rant about his son -- something about having missed Quidditch tryouts because he was ill. McLaggen was really such a wanker and somehow managed to sound boastful even whilst he was complaining. Bode was chiming in here and there with sympathetic comments about the escapades of one of his own sons.

The lift stopped at Level Six, and the opening of the doors and the accompanying chime prompted Arthur to lift his gaze from the floor. As he did so, another bespectacled redhead was doing the same. Their eyes met, and Arthur felt his own face grow warm as Percy’s cheeks flooded with pink. He saw Percy’s jaw clench even as he felt his own tighten.

Unlike the previous couple of occasions when this had happened at work, Percy did not avert his eyes and retreat. Instead, Percy fixed his father with a hard, inscrutable stare. The air grew thin as McLaggen’s pontificating became a vague buzz in Arthur’s ears; time crawled like treacle, and the doors of the lift seemed to take ages to close.

Percy took a step back, halted, then took a step forward and halted again in an odd little indecisive dance. Arthur’s lips parted as if to begin to say something, but he recovered by acting like he’d only done this to draw a breath and sigh, raising one eyebrow as he did so. Distracted by the uncertain movements of his son’s feet, he dropped his gaze to the floor there and happened upon Percy’s shoes. Nice shoes. New shoes. Polished religiously, from the looks of them. He crossed his arms and stared at Percy once again.

A little crinkle formed between Percy’s eyebrows as he gave the slightest shake of his head, and he backed away, not breaking eye contact, as the lift doors closed once again.

“I tell ya,” Bode was musing to McLaggen, the both of them oblivious to the silent conversation that had just taken place an arm’s length away, “it’s always the ones most like you, give you the most grief.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Author's note: I promise the chapters get happier from here! This was the worst..._   
>  _Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated._


	7. 1997

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **1997**
> 
> _A successful marriage; an interesting wedding._

_“Well, now you’ve done it, Molly Prewett.”_

_Molly jumped a bit at hearing Arthur’s voice so close to her ear and tore her eyes away from the little band that had just concluded another lively tune. Their noses were nearly touching when she turned to look at him, clapping appreciatively with the other patrons, her eyebrows raised a bit at his conspiratorial tone._

_“Done what?”_

_“Run off with a gawky ginger bloke. People will talk, you know.”_

_A slow smile spread across her face, and her brown eyes sparkled with mischief (and maybe two pints of ale). “I hope so.”_

_He laughed and kissed her, and she allowed him to take hold of her hand, the one that now wore a small gold band, and kiss that, too. Arthur was certain that he could never feel happier in all his life than he did at that moment, but there was still one nagging thought._

_“I can’t help thinking, you know,” he began, his eyes sweeping the bright little Muggle pub -- just outside of Newquay in Cornwall, where they were lying low for the weekend -- before meeting hers again. “That your wedding day should have been better than this.”_

_“My wedding day is perfect,” she said earnestly, in a way that made him believe it with all his heart, and he let himself stare at her in a completely foolish manner until the fiddler finished speaking with one of the patrons and struck up a familiar tune, something that a couple could dance to -- and indeed, a pair had already taken to the small space in front of the musicians and begun moving about a circular path, dodging stray chairs as they went._

_“Dance with me?” he asked her suddenly._

_Molly looked a little surprised. “I don’t know this one.”_

_“I do. Sort of,” he admitted. “And if we’re terrible, well, nobody knows us here anyway.”_

_He winked at her, and apparently that did it, because she allowed herself to be guided from her seat by the gentle tug of his hand in hers and said, “All right. But on the condition that you never call me that again.”_

_“What?”_

_“Molly Prewett. That’s not my name, you know.”_

_Idiotically and inexplicably, he blushed. “No, it isn’t, Mrs. Weasley.”_

_They danced terribly, laughing as they went, as inelegant as every other aspect of their wedding day. Molly was not wearing a white dress, and Arthur was not wearing dress robes; they did not have a full service, with both their mothers tearing up in the front row, nor room for proper dancing with fifty of their closest friends. But here in this little town, surrounded by perfect strangers, somehow it felt as though nothing in the world was more important than the two of them._

_While this had been Arthur’s proposal in the beginning, it was Molly’s enthusiasm that had kept him from overthinking it; it was romantic, she’d said, their own kind of adventure, and when Arthur allowed himself to look at it that way, it was easy to forget about all the things he_ wasn’t _giving her._

_Tonight he was eighteen and damn near invincible, and Molly Prewett had said yes. They were barely eighty kilometers from his home county of Devon, but there were no whispers of war here. Tonight they had each other and a few Muggle folk songs and a little room waiting for them, and it didn’t matter that they had no idea where they were going to live after this. In an hour they’d turn in for the night and Arthur would make love to his wife for the first time (all right, maybe they’d done just about everything else_ but _that -- but that didn’t count, right?) and he wouldn’t have to climb out any windows to avoid being caught._

_Tomorrow they’d pass the day in each other’s arms, and it wouldn’t matter that on Monday Arthur would go back to the mundane reality of work, or that before the end of the week Molly’s father would probably have his head on a stick, or that upon receiving the news the Black ice would crack and Arthur’s mother would probably be heard as far away as Edinburgh shouting, ‘Arthur Weasley, how_ could _you?!’_

_In a few years he’d be able to give Molly everything she deserved -- but today she was content with his last name._

* * *

  
The first time in a week, it seemed, that Molly sat down for more than five minutes together, was to finally see their eldest son married.

When you considered that five of their children were now older than Arthur and Molly had been when they’d married, it became clear that Molly had been awaiting this moment for quite some time — and she seemed to have been made for it. So proud was she in the role of mother of the groom that Arthur had found himself one day feeling almost guilty for having deprived his own mother of that distinction nearly thirty years before (Godfrey and Bilius had always been a lost cause in that regard).

Molly had poured her heart and soul into this wedding, running herself and everyone else ragged in the process, and for his part Arthur had wisely decided to do whatever was asked of him — even if that meant engaging in the rather pointless exercise of organizing his work shed that literally nobody was going to see. There may have been a lot of things they could not give their children, but this was something they could — and what’s more, this was something he could give Molly.

But for all Molly’s toil (and his own), Arthur hardly noticed the flowers or the configuration of tables or the absence of garden gnomes. What he did notice was how radiantly happy Bill looked, and the sudden realization of how grown up his boy was, in a way that hadn’t ever really struck him before. What did occur to him was the idea that, for all their struggles, Molly Prewett and Arthur sodding Weasley had created a life that, in its own way, was truly grand.

What he did see was how very lovely and happy Molly was.

Once the ceremony had concluded, Molly was back to business, running to and fro, tireless, ceaseless, the perfect hostess, and it was hours before Arthur snagged a quiet moment with her. He put an arm around her as they sat at a table littered with half-eaten slices of cake and empty champagne glasses, watching Bill dance with Fleur amidst the other couples that packed the dance floor.

“Proper job, Molly Prewett,” he said with satisfaction, and he was only partially talking about the wedding.

In response, she leant her head against his shoulder, commenting lightly, “Only six more to go…”

“Good lord,” he replied with a hint of alarm, drawing a tired laugh from her. “Not sure I can even think of that right now. Although…” He gestured with his glass of firewhiskey towards Ron, who seemed to have spent the past three straight hours dancing with Hermione. “Have you been watching this happening?”

“Mmhmm,” was her reply — a bit thoughtful, a bit sad — and he gave her shoulder a squeeze, realizing she must have gone back to fretting about what those two and Harry were planning to do in the coming weeks.

Stifling a yawn, Molly turned her attention to a different topic, asking, “Wonder where the twins have got to? I haven’t seen them in over an hour.”

Arthur distinctly recalled having seen a matching set heading towards a dark corner of the orchard with a couple of blondes earlier.

“Haven’t the faintest.”

When the band struck up a slower waltz, he withdrew his arm from around her and offered her his hand.

“What do you say, Mrs. Weasley?”

She beamed and took his hand without hesitation, smoothing her hair as he led her onto the dance floor and held her close.

“Have I told you already how beautiful you look?”

Pleased though she seemed, she rolled her eyes and nodded in the direction of Fleur’s parents, who were executing a perfect waltz that seemed divinely inspired, in contrast to Arthur and Molly’s lazier version. “Not so beautiful as Apolline, I think.”

Arthur flushed a bit, recalling his behavior when he’d first met Fleur’s mother a couple of days prior. “Well. The difference is that you don’t need to be half Veela to make me act like an idiot.”

“That’s a very intelligent answer,” she remarked shrewdly, drawing a laugh from him. She drew closer then, until her cheek was resting against his chest, and he planted a slow kiss atop her head.

The truth was that Molly had almost no business looking as good as she did after nearly thirty straight years of raising children and putting up with Arthur.

When he lifted his eyes, he saw that the twins had rejoined the party — in a manner of speaking; they were milling about the edge of the marquee, observing the festivities, having foregone the trifling matter of drinking glasses as they passed an unknown bottle back and forth between them. When George spied his parents, he elbowed Fred with a smile and pointed towards where they were dancing. Fred looked over and pantomimed vomiting dramatically.

“Found the twins,” murmured Arthur.

“Oh?” Molly did not seem interested in pulling away from him at that moment. “What are they doing?”

“Reading the Bible.”

That drew the heartiest laugh he’d had the pleasure of hearing from her all week, maybe longer, and she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. By this time they had abandoned proper dance steps entirely, and Arthur contented himself with resting his cheek atop her head, eyes closed as they swayed.

He heard the words before he saw the lynx.

_“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”_

* * *

  
“Are you sure there’s nothing else we can do, Arthur? We _can_ stay, if you’d like.”

At nearly three in the morning, Remus and Tonks were, officially, the last of the wedding guests to leave, having stayed behind with other Order members after the gatecrashers had concluded their interrogations and gone. With their help, the family had been able to replace a number of the protective enchantments around the Burrow — while it was certainly just a matter of time before they were broken again, it also would have been stupid not to do it — and the couple had hung around a while longer for moral support, during which time the occupants of the house had slowly retired to its various rooms to… well, if not to sleep, then to stare paranoidly at the ceiling.

“No, no,” replied Arthur wearily, “we’ve kept you long enough, thank you. And to be perfectly honest,” he added with a forced laugh, “I’m not sure what accommodation I could offer you that’s remotely comfortable.”

The Burrow’s material contents had been thoroughly and rather unnecessarily thrashed during the ‘Ministry’s’ search, but even putting that aside, it was still quite a full house. Unless they wanted to sleep in Ron’s room with the ghoul, which… well, when Arthur thought about it, he was certain that in a few days when things felt normal again, he would find that detail of his son’s plan beyond hilarious.

Madame and Monsieur Delacour had retired fairly early to the master bedroom with Gabrielle, who’d been utterly beside herself following the night’s events. They’d staunchly refused to Disapparate when the raid had happened, not wanting to abandon Fleur, and by the time the interrogations had concluded it was surely safer for them to spend the rest of the night there, than to go out in search of new accommodations or attempt to travel home. Arthur could not help feeling a pang of guilt, irrational though he knew it was: this should never have been their conflict. All they’d wanted was see their daughter get married.

Molly had fallen asleep in Ginny’s room where she’d been trying to console their daughter in the wake of Ron, Harry, and Hermione’s disappearance, not to mention everything else that had happened, and Arthur did not have the heart to wake her. His wife, he’d observed with much satisfaction, had remained stony throughout the interrogations -- almost frighteningly so; she was always more ominous when she was cold and quiet than when she was breathing fire -- and then had immediately applied herself to the task of remaining strong for everyone else, especially Ginny. Frankly, she was due for her own breakdown over the night’s events, and Arthur did not wish to hurry her towards that grief.

The twins and Charlie had gone off to their respective rooms, and Arthur assumed Bill and Fleur would be taking Percy’s room and that he himself would end up kipping on the sofa. If he even went to bed at all.

Remus gave a brief nod in response to Arthur, before looking at Tonks. “You know, I hate to say it, but we should actually go check on your parents -- we’ve no idea whether they hit any other houses tonight…” Tonks merely nodded, her lips a thin line.

Arthur saw them out the door to the back garden and watched as they headed outside the limits of the enchantments where they could Disapparate. Once they’d safely done so, he closed and locked the door and expected himself to crumble into an exhausted heap right on the spot — but he did not. The silence and stillness of the house assaulted him, a stark contrast to the preceding twenty-some hours of bustle, revelry, and havoc; and he made his way from the kitchen to the sitting room in a listless manner, quite unsure what to do with himself.

As it turned out, he was not the only one.

Bill was sat on the sofa, still in his dress robes, staring into the unlit fireplace with unfocused eyes, his wand clenched in his right hand while with his left he absently stroked Fleur’s hair. Fleur had fallen asleep with her head on Bill’s lap, and Arthur noticed that the t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms she’d changed into must have been Bill’s, because they were far too baggy on her, the hems of the too-long trousers rolled up to her ankles.

Fully aware of the futility of his own question, Arthur asked it anyway.

“Will you be sleeping at some point?”

Mouth twisted to the side in an expression that uncannily resembled Arthur’s dear departed mother — contemplative, with a hint of murder — Bill shook his head slowly, still staring straight ahead. “Nope.”

Arthur slouched against the doorframe between the two rooms, casting about for anything to do or say, until he spied an open bottle of champagne on the largely undisturbed kitchen table. After retrieving it — because at this point, why the hell not? — and holding it up to the light to confirm there was still some left, he increased and chilled it with a couple taps of his wand. But as all of the champagne glasses seemed to have been used (or broken), he had to make do with what they had available.

Bill raised his eyebrows when Arthur joined him, setting two pint glasses on the coffee table, which had earlier been overturned but which Bill had put right so that he could prop his feet on it.

“Think that’s grounds for divorce in France,” quipped Bill as Arthur poured champagne for both of them.

“ ‘Salright, we’re in Devon.” Father offered son a glass. “Unless _you_ want to do the dishes.”

“Cheers,” was Bill’s response as he accepted his drink.

Arthur hesitated for a moment. “Congratulations?” he toasted.

Bill let out a mirthless snort, finally setting down his wand and flexing and stretching the fingers of his wand hand.

They sipped together in silence for a few moments before Arthur spoke again.

“Bastards didn’t even bring a gift.”

Almost in spite of himself, Bill sniggered into his drink, glancing down at Fleur when she stirred in response to either the sound of his laughter or the way his body shook with it.

“Sorry,” he whispered, stroking her hair again when she furrowed her brow and mumbled something in French. “ ‘Salright. Go back to sleep.”

Bill watched Fleur for a moment before releasing a sigh. “So we’ve no idea where the kids have gone?”

Arthur found some amusement in the fact that Bill still referred to seventeen-year-old Ron and friends as ‘the kids,’ particularly on this day, since Arthur could still recall very clearly when Bill was nine and had been completely disgusted to find himself the object of a little girl’s affections at a wedding they’d attended.

“I’ve got an idea or two, but I don’t think it’s in anybody’s interest to go poking into it. We’ll scarcely be able to breathe without _them_ knowing about it.”

“Surprised Mum hasn’t lost it already, them taking off and all.”

“She will,” replied Arthur lightly. “But you know, she’s had a very busy couple of days.”

Bill made a gruff little sound of amusement in his throat.

“Decorations _did_ turn out nice,” he acknowledged after a few seconds had passed.

“Oh, yes.”

“Flowers. Napkins.”

“I’ve never seen such lovely napkins,” deadpanned Arthur, and Bill stifled a laugh in his arm.

“Did she really make you clean your work shed?”

Arthur nodded. “Surprised she didn’t repaint the house, honestly.”

Bill looked lost in contemplation for a moment, until suddenly he began chuckling -- softly at first, and then more and more uncontrollably, his face turning pink with the effort to hold it in so as not to wake up Fleur.

“What’s so funny?”

Blowing out a slow, shaky breath to calm his laughter, Bill looked at Arthur with eyes full of mirth, truly alive for the first time in hours.

“We should’ve eloped.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The italicized quote "The Ministry has fallen..." is, of course, from Deathly Hallows, spoken by Kingsley's Patronus._


	8. 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **2002**
> 
> _Sometimes a girl just needs to be one of the boys._  
> 
> 
> * * *

  
Weasleys were not supposed to have daughters.

Nobody was _opposed_ to the idea, of course, and it wasn’t as if there was a curse on the family (not that Arthur knew of, though he supposed you couldn’t rule it out entirely; Bilius could hardly be the first Weasley with a talent for saying unintentionally inappropriate things).

It just… didn’t happen. Not for over two hundred years.

Before Ron was born, when Molly had still been holding out hope, there’d been a period of time when girls’ names were entertained (Arthur had thought it all an exercise in futility, but only at his own peril would he have told Molly that).

But aside from that? You simply didn’t think about girls’ names, didn’t think about doing nurseries in pink. You were not supposed to have to worry about the issue of boyfriends, or anything else that happened when girls started growing up.

You never expected to fall in love in a way you hadn’t thought possible.

When Ginny was born, the first words out of Arthur’s mouth to the midwife -- okay, really not his finest moment -- had been, “Are you quite sure there hasn’t been a mistake?”

But Ginevra -- named for Molly’s grandmother (without a moment’s hesitation, as if Molly had been expecting this result all along) -- had not been a mistake. The first Weasley girl in two centuries had arrived precisely when she’d meant to, as if she’d willed herself into existence with a distinct purpose in mind.

And just like that, Arthur had found himself rethinking every principle he’d developed over his considerable parenting career. Kids bounced, he’d always said, but he’d spent the first few years of Ginny’s life trying to ensure nobody put that hypothesis to the test. He’d been all at once more lenient and more strict with her than he’d been with any of his boys.

Not, he reckoned, that any of that mattered in the end. Ginny Weasley was going to be who she was going to be; Arthur and Molly were simply lucky to be along for the ride.

Ginny had ignored over a decade of being excluded from Quidditch practice and become the only Weasley child -- the first Weasley in one hundred thirty years, in fact -- to play professionally. Ginny had tolerated years of being shoved into frills by Molly, only to emerge this side of the war with scars across one cheek, looking no less beautiful for it. Ginny had taken a lifetime of being shunted to the side by her brothers and decided to attach herself to the most famous wizard alive -- as his equal.

Ginny Weasley was really an admirable chap.

But she still wasn’t invited to George’s stag do, and she was quite put out about that fact.

Molly couldn’t really understand why it wasn’t the same to be invited to Angelina’s hens’ the next week. Only Arthur, it seemed, realized that Ginny could have held her own perfectly well at both. And though it was certainly reasonable for George not to want his little sister hanging around whilst he and his brothers and mates did, well, God knows what, it was also understandable that Ginny was annoyed that literally every one of her siblings got to participate except for her -- and to add insult to injury, so did her own boyfriend.

Arthur did what any good dad would do in this situation: he invited his daughter for a lads’ night out.

The Bard and Badger was the oldest wizarding pub in the West Country (no matter what the Lion’s Mane in Godric’s Hollow may have to say about it), and while Arthur supposed rationally he should have favored the one named with a nod to Gryffindor, he had a longstanding attachment to the Bard, which was an Ottery institution.

The Bard always seemed to be as bright or dim as you needed it to be, and their cider was second to none. There was still a gouge in the brickwork on the northern wall from a wayward jinx that had just missed Arthur’s head on the night he and Sil Shafiq had to haul Benny Culpepper out of there in 1968. (To be clear, Arthur and his mates absolutely could have taken those guys if they’d wanted to.)

It was where Arthur and his brothers had gathered on the rare occasions when Godfrey came home to visit; and it was where he and Godfrey had focused all of their energy on drinking themselves stupid after Bilius’s funeral in 1991, and Molly hadn’t said a word in criticism when Arthur had come home completely legless.

Despite all of Benny the Berk’s personal efforts in the late 60’s and 70’s, it actually was a reputable establishment. Arthur treated Ginny to a late dinner and the best cider in the county before having a few friendly rounds of Gadshook, a wizarding variation on billiards played with one’s wand instead of a cue stick. A local folk band played several lively sets, and in between those, the entertainment was provided via outbursts from a rowdy group in one corner playing Imploding Snap, a somewhat more complicated and higher stakes version of the popular card game.

Arthur took the first two Gadshook games, but Ginny won the third, and when she did she let out a jubilant whoop and bounced excitedly around the table, fists in the air, long red hair whipping about her face, laughing when the raucous Imploding Snap group joined enthusiastically in her cheer.

Back at the Burrow (Molly was fast asleep already, and Arthur was starting to fade a bit himself but he rallied) Arthur poured each of them a glass of the _good_ whiskey, the one Bill had given him two Christmases before, and together he and his daughter sat behind the Burrow, the way he once had with his brother, the way he had with each of this sons at some point -- sometimes when they were seeking advice or reassurance, but other times simply existing, as he and Ginny were now, appreciating the clear night sky. Arthur made comments about the constellations that Ginny had heard countless times before but always listened to happily, and Ginny kept him up to date on inside Quidditch information.

A fine mizzle had started to fall, but barely noticeable, nothing they weren’t used to, and a couple of Impervius Charms took care of that minor annoyance as they resolutely nursed their drinks.

“Ballycastle will be entirely unrecognizable in as little as three years if Weggins gets his way -- ” Ginny stopped short and sat up in her chair, looking past Arthur to where a silver stag was trotting around the house towards them. The brief look of concern in her eyes was dispelled, however, as soon as the stag opened its mouth and spoke.

_“I’ll be home in… an hour. Okay, maybe… maybe an hour and a half.”_ The stag paused. _“I hope you’re not still with your dad right now, I probably sound like a total wally…”_

Arthur chuckled. Harry definitely didn’t sound pissed, but perhaps a bit… slow.

_“Oi, we said no Patronuses!”_ A voice that sounded a bit like George’s friend Lee sounded from within the Patronus. Real Lee sounded like he’d been shouting, but it emerged from the Patronus in an ethereal fashion as if echoing through a tunnel.

_“For the last time, it’s_ Patroni. _It’s LATIN. Jesus.”_

That last one was definitely Percy, though he sounded…

_“Oh,”_ added Patronus Harry. _“Yeah, Percy’s completely off his face, by the way. I mean, so’s everyone, but… this is a weird night.”_

_“It’s literally Patronuses,”_ interjected Patronus Charlie, sounding unsteady himself and also very far away, _“it’s in all the books that way.”_

_“After 1930, it became accepted use -- ”_ (Plastered Percy pronounced it ‘a-septed’) _“ -- because everyone_ (‘ever-one’) _was sayin’ it wrong, but that doesn’t_ (‘dunnit’) _mean it’s proper English.”_

_“Thought it was Latin, mate.”_

_“Whatever.”_

Ginny was shaking with mirth, her fist pressed to her mouth.

_“Whatever, Perce,”_ echoed Patronus Charlie. _“Hey, that blonde wants to hear more of your pirate impression.”_

_“It’s not a pirate, is it, it’s Septimus. But alright, where’s she to?”_ After a brief pause, Patronus Percy called out enthusiastically, _“Wasson, me bird? Miss me, did ‘ee?”_

Ginny fell into hysterics, and Arthur was laughing so hard he thought he might cry.

_“Harry, get off the Patronus already!”_ That one was Ron.

_“He’s a hypocrite,”_ said the stag to Ginny. _“Saw him send one to Hermione five minutes ago. But alright, see you soon. Love you.”_

Ginny wiped tears from her eyes as the stag dissolved. “Idiots,” she proclaimed fondly. Then, sighing, she added, “I should probably get home. And I think it’s about four hours past your bedtime.”

Arthur nodded his assent, but neither of them was in any actual hurry to go anywhere. A long moment passed in companionable silence, Ginny closing her eyes in apparent contentment as Arthur gazed out across the dark fields and orchards. Though the Impervious Charm kept his face and glasses dry, he could still feel a pleasant chill from the fine mist in the air caressing his skin. Time became immeasurable, and they existed in this way for what could have been a minute or an hour, and only when Arthur yawned and began to sit forward did Ginny speak again.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Harry’s been talking about getting married.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and Arthur struggled to place her tone.

Arthur was hardly surprised, partly due to the passage of time (so much longer now than in his day), but also due to the fact that Harry had spoken to him about this not two months before.

He looked at her evenly, noting her pensive demeanor. “Is that not what you want?”

“It is, but…” Eyes open once more, she shook her head, staring up at the sky, and seemed to hesitate before speaking again. When she did, though her voice was quiet, it was firm and clear, and the only thing that betrayed her doubt was the way her eyebrows drew together.

“I don’t want to lose myself.”

“Ginevra...” Arthur waited until she turned her head to meet his gaze, and when she did, he cupped a hand over her cheek.

With an incredulous shake of his head, he asked, “Where on earth could you ever go?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This one is dedicated to my favorite drinking buddy, my dad, who always believed this world belonged to me as much as it does to any man._
> 
> _Don't overthink the Patronus thing -- it's meant to venture into the absurd. But I do have a silly headcanon as to how the Patronus could capture other voices besides that of the person casting it._
> 
> _Also, you may have noticed the passage of time between the last chapter and this one, and wonder why I haven't included a chapter dealing with Fred's death and/or Percy's return. It's an understatement to say that both would be significant events in Arthur's life. I want to assure you I'm not trying to ignore them. Frankly, I've written about Fred's death so many times by this point, I hated to... well, if you'll excuse the phrase, beat a dead horse. I did touch on Arthur's and Molly's reactions to that in my fics_ Ignatius _and_ Eight. _Ignatius also dealt directly with the occasion of Percy's return at the Battle of Hogwarts, and I rather worried I'd be repeating myself here._
> 
> _Fret not, the next chapter of this story will acknowledge Fred, even if he's not the focus of it, and you will get a chapter giving Arthur and Percy some closure! I just decided to go about it differently than tying up absolutely everything between them in 1998._


	9. 2005

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **2005**
> 
> _Sometimes the biggest shoes to fill are the ones you put on every day._

Not one month in, and Ron looked exhausted, which might have accounted for the level of restraint in his voice as he argued with a particularly combative chessman when Arthur dropped in to visit.

That, or he was trying not to wake Rose, who was asleep in his arms.

When Arthur stepped out of the fireplace into Ron’s sitting room, he found his son slouched in an armchair, his chessboard spread before him as tiny Rose slumbered on his chest. He’d enchanted the opposing set to play against him, as if commanded by a phantom opponent, and he was currently engaged in a dispute with one of his knights.

“Oh, hey, Dad,” he said to Arthur before delivering a hushed retort to the knight. “Oi, don’t you get mouthy with me, or I’ll let Oliver make all the good moves.” He pointed to the other knight. “Is that what you want?”

The quarrelsome chessman made a rude hand gesture, drawing a “Back at you” from Ron. Ultimately, the knight obeyed his master’s direction, though he gave the captured pawn a very halfhearted thrashing.

“I’m afraid this has turned out to be an unexciting time to visit,” said Ron. “Hermione’s having a kip, and so is this one.” He pointed to Rose.

“Is this how you put her to sleep?” Arthur asked, indicating the game.

Ron shrugged one shoulder. “Hermione reckons she likes the sound of my voice, even when she’s sleeping. But to be honest with you, I’m off Beedle the Bard for… well, probably the rest of my life, and I reckon work stories are a bit too mature, probably wait ‘til she’s two or three to start her on those.” He cracked a little smile. “So when it’s not teaching her about Quidditch, it’s this. Sit down, Dad.” He gestured invitingly.

“How’s Hermione doing?” Arthur took a seat across from Ron.

“Think she’ll be brilliant once she gets about two solid weeks’ worth of sleep. Where’s Mum?”

“Still at Percy’s. I was just over there.”

“Oh? How’s he doing?”

“Oh, you know.” Arthur shrugged sympathetically. “Losing his mind.” It was frankly an understatement for the bundle of nerves Percy had been since little Molly was born, within just a couple of weeks of Rose.

A wicked grin crept across Ron’s face. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“And you? How’re you feeling?”

Ron pondered the question for a moment. “Underqualified,” he decided at last.

“Well, that tracks,” Arthur allowed. His gaze fell to the chess set. “How’d you like an opponent you can have a conversation with?”

His son threw him an appraising look. “Depends, are you gonna cheat again?”

“Cheat?? When have I ever cheated?”

“You tried to convince my pieces to unionize! That’s dirty tactics, at the very least.”

Arthur laughed, remembering. “Well, it was entirely up to them, and it wasn’t successful anyway.”

Both froze as Rose stirred and made a little sound as if to fuss, before she yawned and settled again.

“That’s right,” murmured Ron soothingly, patting her on the back as she continued to sleep. “Grandad is an appalling cheat. I’m onto him, don’t you worry.”

Arthur chuckled.

“The white rooks haven’t been the same ever since,” reported Ron with a chagrined shake of the head, “and don’t even get me started on the pawns.”

“They look like they’re doing famously now,” Arthur observed, noting that the white pieces were the bewitched set, and that they seemed to be very evenly matched against Ron; each side had captured an equal number of pieces from the other.

“Well, that’s because I’ve got ‘em set to Level Septimus. Hardest level to beat, that’s why Roland here is losing his mind.” With that, he redirected his attention briefly to the contentious black knight. “How long have we been doing this together, Roland? A little faith, please.”

“What other levels have you got?”

Ron stifled a yawn. “Let’s see, there’s Level Percy, that’s a fairly decent match, but the opposing pieces argue with me. Level Charlie, mostly play like they’re drunk but occasionally do something novel. Level Harry for whenever I want to feel _really_ good about myself.”

“No Level Arthur?”

“Oh, that’s the one I’ll start her on someday.” With a smug look, Ron indicated Rose. “Make it easy on her at first.”

“Hah.”

“All right, there.” Ron was speaking now to the chessmen as he shifted in his seat and waved his wand to lift the enchantment that had allowed the white pieces to play on their own. “Re-form ranks, please, new match. Don’t start with me, Roland, we’ve got company.”

Arthur was, in fact, no match for his youngest son at chess; Ron had learnt from the best (well, so had Arthur, but it seemed the true talent had skipped a generation), and if Arthur had thought that the circles under Ron’s eyes were an indication that this would be an easy match, he’d been sorely mistaken.

After a few moves by each side in silence -- other than the few words needed to direct the chessmen -- Ron offered quietly, “I’ve told George I’ll do it. Help him with the business.”

Ron watched as one of his pawns came to fisticuffs with one of his father’s. Arthur tilted his head, trying to read Ron’s demeanor.

To Arthur’s limited knowledge, George had first tentatively floated the idea a couple of years earlier, after little Fred was born. But though Ron had been pretty openly jaded with his own job for a while now, he’d never gone for it. Ron’s reasons were his own, and Arthur tried to make a point of not meddling in his kids’ affairs, but something about the deliberate restraint with which Ron delivered the news now piqued his concern.

“Is it just the sleep deprivation I’m seeing, or are you not too keen on the plan?”

“What? Oh, no. Not that. I’ll be glad of the change. All right, sorry, Rosie, but I think my back’s about to become shaped this way.” With that, Ron pushed himself up, kissed Rose atop her head, and laid her gently in a cradle beside his chair, hands hovering above her for a moment as if pleading for her not to wake.

“If I’m honest,” he continued, twisting to give his back a stretch before leaning forward to contemplate the chessboard, forearms resting atop his knees, “I’ve been done with the Auror thing for a while now. I’d just about decided anyway, and then being away from work for a couple of weeks with her” — he gestured to Rose with a look — “made me realize how much I didn’t fancy going back to it.”

But he still looked… uncertain — worried, even.

Arthur hesitated and moved one of his knights before venturing, “Does Hermione not agree?”

He received a quizzical look in response, before Ron raised his eyebrows in comprehension.

“Oh. Oh, no, she’s well chuffed, actually. Turns out she likes the idea of knowing I’ll come home in one piece every day. Though,” he added with a wry smile, “when she said that, I did have to ask her whether she’s ever _met_ George. Hugh, take that knight.”

Ron’s bishop happily clobbered the white knight with his staff.

“Does Harry know?”

“Yeah. Took him a minute to come around, but he’s all right now. He gets it.”

Arthur decided to ease off if Ron didn’t want to come out with whatever was troubling him, and they exchanged a few more moves without conversation, until Arthur checked Ron’s king.

As he moved his king out of danger, Ron said abruptly, “I’m just — I’m never going to be him. Not even close.” He kept his eyes fixed on the chessboard as he said it.

Hesitating as to a response -- not knowing whether Ron even wanted one -- Arthur instead concentrated on taking an opening he’d spotted on the board. After several more minutes and moves had passed, he blurted out, “Why on earth are you letting me win?”

“I’m not letting you win.”

“I’ve put you in check three times.”

“So you have,” Ron agreed lightly, looking entirely at ease about it.

Within three more moves, Ron had taken Arthur’s queen due to a stupid move on Arthur’s part, and he realized his son had lulled him into a false sense of security and was now threatening mate on Arthur’s own king.

“George doesn’t need you to be Fred,” Arthur said finally, having decided Ron would not have said anything if he didn’t need to hear it. “He needs you to be you.”

“You know, George said something like that, too.” Ron looked amused. “Only more colorful.”

Then he appeared to think for a moment before remarking, “It’s just big shoes to fill, is all.”

“Well, that’s why you wear your own.”

Ron made a sound that was half groan, half laugh. “That’s such a Grandad Septimus thing to say.”

“Where did you think I learnt it? And, you know, speaking of Grandad, whatever this play is that you’re pulling here —” Arthur gestured to the scene of his imminent defeat on the table between them. “He did something like this to me once. I was so frustrated I upset the entire board.”

Ron chuckled and instructed his bishop, “Hugh — yeah, exactly, G5,” before both their attentions were drawn to a movement in the cradle, followed by a slow series of gurgles and coos.

“Oh, have you decided to join the party?” inquired Ron kindly, scooping up his daughter. “You _are_ supposed to be the entertainment.” He stood, preparing to hand Rose over to Arthur, when he suddenly stopped, looked down at the board, and said with a tired smile, “Oh, almost forgot: Mate.” 

The white king threw down his crown angrily, but Arthur was too busy accepting little Rose to care. He did, however, comment to Ron as they both settled into their respective seats again, “Now that right there was Level Septimus.”

Ron grinned with satisfaction.

After a moment, during which Arthur cradled Rose in one arm, looking into her unblinking blue eyes, allowing her to grasp his fingers in her tiny hands, Ron spoke up again.

“I miss him.”

Arthur nearly asked which ‘him’ Ron was referring to, until he realized it hardly mattered in that moment — the response was the same either way.

“Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you're wondering where Ron's chessmen's names came from, I developed a little headcanon that one side are named after Arthurian legend, and one side are named after Carolingian legend (Charlemagne), which would include Roland, Oliver, and Hugh (the black pieces that Ron is playing with). I also liked the idea that the one who argues with Ron the most is the one named similarly to him except the "L" and the "N" are swapped. I came up with this after reading a theory that Ron's name may be a nod to the Roland of Carolingian legend since his name is sort of the most obvious outlier in the Weasley kids naming scheme, but now we're getting far afield of really anything..._
> 
> _Anyway, I loved writing this chapter. Your thoughts in a review are always appreciated! <3_


End file.
